Peter Punk
by PippinStrange
Summary: An origin story of Peter Pan like you've never read before. A runaway named Peter, crosses paths with Tinkerbell, a clockwork fairy enslaved to a cybercircus, a spectacle of cybertechnology and magic. Together they decide to retake their freedom together, embarking on a voyage to space above the Star Maiden, a ship seeking wealth and new worlds. This is my novel for NaNoWriMo.
1. Prologue

**Welcome readers! I've decided to post my NaNoWriMo novel on here. Technically, it's an original "story", but since it's about Peter Pan, I guess it works in fan fiction, too. Updates will be very regular since the goal is to be finished by November 30th. I know I'll run dry on this story if I don't get some feedback, so I'm posting it for you guys to review :) Thank-you so much. And don't worry, my other stories will be updated in December. **

**Love,**

**Pippin**

* * *

**PETER PUNK**

**a peter pan origin story**

**by m.s. **

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**Now He Is My Enemy…**

Peter could hear the screaming long after he ran out of earshot.

His heart hammered inside of his chest, an anvil deep inside that made him stumble and weep when he should be running, running, running…

The screaming went on.

"Pan," the voice snarled, crying out after him. The voice was haggard, broken, grating on Peter's ears as flesh would twitch over broken glass. "PAN!"

The physical torture he was enduring at that moment was nothing compared to the sound of quiet betrayal, underlying the volume. "Pan!" he shouted again.

Peter couldn't answer. He pressed against the wall, willing himself to grow smaller. He could not still the throbbing in his throat.

"Pan—I know you're still here—I know you can hear me—" a thump, and a horrible groan. "You will escape today, Pan, always running away—it's what you're good at—but I'll see you again—oh, yes, I will," another cry of pain. "And when I see you again, I will cut out your eyes. You hear me? I will kill you, Pan. I will hang you from the highest peak in the Nevers—I will send your entrails to your precious fairy in a box—"

_He was the prodigy, _Peter thought horribly, _now he is nobody. I did not just injure him. I erased him and made him anew. _

"I know—ugh—I know you're there. I know you're listening. Don't you know, Pan, that a man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous? You've—you've taken everything. _Everything!" _There was a gross, retching sound, and a feral scream. _"I hate you, Pan! I hate you!"_

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**Prologue**

The stars in the heavens watched with unease over planet earth. They quietly, sadly observed the breakthroughs of science and technology that would enable man to cast aside the harness of gravity, and be free to search the skies for wealth and worlds to conquer.

Gone were the simple inventions of travel; steam engines and carriages that attempted to run without horses, replaced by wonders that no one could have possibly imagined. Cybertechnology lifted the sails of a clipper ship while it was not on the water, replaced the aching joints and limbs of those whose bones could never heal, and dazzled the crowds through circuses and freak entertainment.

Where there was once bewilderment, there was greed. Where there was once a desire for learning, there was only hunger. The power to seek out new life was within man's grasp, and with it, the powers of taking those lives as slaves.

Worlds collided.

The life of a Fen—a creature, like a person, some say a 'space man' or an 'alien'—was forever changed the day she left the stars and flew among them. Curious, she was blinded by the visions she saw of family, warm and comforting, and of the good deeds scattered across the globe. She saw acts of kindness, heroes, love, the way farmers cared for their agriculture, the way people celebrated with festivals and fireworks, and yes, even the way those that were dying were half-replaced by pieces of metal and clockwork. She saw those people wake up and examine their new bodies, grateful to be alive.

She wanted to see all of this up close for herself. It was not her fault, venturing too close to danger, when people try so hard to hide their villainy.

The collision—the Fen, a slave, and a young boy—a slave of a different kind. A slave to his fear, build upon by the years of unkempt promises, unwanted touch; an ugly side of life, hidden like bruises under long coat sleeves.

The stars watched with new interest when their worlds came together—for good, or for ill, they would be together forever.

Immortal.

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**please review :) thank-you! **


	2. The Circus Freak

**PETER PUNK**

**a peter pan origin story**

**by m.s.**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**The Circus Freak**

The lights went down to the smallest glimmers, and the audience grew hushed and whispered among themselves.

A single spotlight blasted into the center of the dirt pit, where the ringmaster held up his hands to the cheers and thunderous applause. Then with a single wave, he silenced them again, smiling knowingly at their anticipation.

"I will show you the wonders of the world," he said, intensely. "I will show you that magic is not to be just tolerated—but believed. Science and the unexplainable miracles of time and space are just within your grasp. You must see it—you must trust that what your own eyes see, are true. First—the lore of our forefathers, ancient Briton, in the wars of the Celtic tribes of Ireland—they could only agree on one thing, and that was the existence of fairies. Look closely."

A second spotlight lit up the top corner of the tent, where a structure that looked like a birdhouse was hung. From inside the tiny house, there was a peculiar green glow that reminded all of firefly, or a beam of sunlight through a canopy of leaves. There was something electric and enticing about it.

And then it emerged—a creature, a person, perhaps eight inches tall. She was a real live fairy, with wings like a glass dragonfly, and the pointed ears of a faun. Cogs and gears were visible in her neck, the sides of her face, and the creases of her elbows and legs. They whirred and churned with a humming sound as she flew down from the perch, wearing a tiny dress and corset like a scandalous dancer, and slippers like the respectable kind. She glowed iridescent, neon green.

She made a figure eight around the upper dome of the tent, to the tune of raucous shouts and hundreds of clapping hands.

"The science of cyber technology and the miracle of magic," shouted the ringmaster, "Feast your eyes upon it!"

A strange wind kicked up a tendril of dust from the circus floor, and there was a whisper in the gust. The whisper did not come from under the bleachers nor from the circus participants—it was as if there was a commotion from _elsewhere, _somewhere high above—the smallest of all voices, tinny and bright, seemed to say,

_Look there!_

And then the fairy looked right at _him_.

Peter leaned forward in his seat, just one shadow among the thousands, and yet he knew she could see him, despite the blinding spotlight guiding her flight.

He was overwhelmed with jealousy that she could rise a hundred meters above the floor and he could not, yet she looked at him with such sadness and despair that it made his heart break in two. He almost wished he hadn't come. Though he'd never admit it, he regretted some of his sharp words at school that afternoon. As if her very gaze made his mind open up, and feel things from his heart that he tried to forget.

…

The voice of the sharp, stiff headmistress droned over the heads of the students, a drab and monotonous sound that was beginning to sound more like machinery. As the sunshine pouring through the windows grew warmer, the attention and motivation in the classroom decreased, and Peter was no exception.

She made an exciting subject such as cyber-technology and robotics so utterly boring that Peter no longer fought the desire to stare out the window at the grounds. They were taught that most cyber technology was only in theory, or put to work in laboratories and circuses, anyway. Peter had a feeling that it was only a lie they taught children to keep them from desiring any part of the wealth that lay in the future.

The closest thing he had ever seen was the man who turned on the gas lamps along the streets during twilight. There was a rod attached to his forearm, and when he cranked the handle, it extended till it reached the knob at the base of the lamp. Then two tiny claws extended, turned on the hazy yellow glow, and retracted.

Peter asked him once, "Were you always a cyborg?"

The man answered. "No, I was an urchin on the streets. I allowed them to experiment on me with the promise of a steady income if it worked."

"Who are they? The ones who experimented on you?" asked Peter.

The man shook his head and said no more, and moved on to the next lamp.

Peter's eyes were blurry, watching the iridescent green of the leaves outside the window. Rain beat them down, causing them to flutter like wings. It made him think of a melody, one with short, alto tones, moving into a high, lyrical sound… like a violin…

He was whistling softly to himself without realizing it. _What I wouldn't give for a flute or a penny whistle, _he thought, with a jealous sigh for all those who could make music whenever they wished.

More than anything, he envied the birds. They had the power for both music and soaring through the clouds whenever they wanted. He watched one, now, soaring up towards a branch of a tree. It landed, lightly, and sang.

"Peter!" said the headmistress, tapping a pointer with a conductor's precision against her desk. "Would you like to contribute to the discussion?"

Peter turned and faced the headmistress, having forgotten where he was and what they were discussing. He was lost; lost in music, color, memories, shadows. He tuned into the classroom again, the four gray walls pressing in, the feeling of being smothered by shadows.

"What?" he asked.

The class snickered.

"I demand that you contribute to our discussion," she replied, "Instead of that awful caterwaul that you have just delighted us with."

"What…?" repeated Peter, trying to remember the subject.

"Technological advances of this century," she said testily, "Steam, clock, cyber. Anything you'd like to contribute that is not of a uselessly musical nature?"

Peter tore his unseeing eyes from the window where he had become entangled in his thoughts. He wanted to think of a question that would _not _earn him a trip to the headmaster nor a rap on the hand. "Instead of hearing about cyber technology, why not see it for ourselves?" He asked, hoping his child-like curiosity would douse the flame in his teacher's eyes. But once he began, he couldn't stop, and like many of his forbidden thoughts, he said them out loud without the power to stop himself. "A fine lot of students we'll make if we never learn anything because we're _bored _of you_. _Especially when you talk utter rubbish."

Peter's eyes widened, surprised at himself. He always managed to blurt out what was on his mind, and he couldn't make himself shut up. _I have a condition, _he thought, with an inward groan. _When I try to tread most carefully is when I have less inhibition! _

"If we decided to exclude subjects simply because they aren't very exciting," the headmistress replied, calmly, "you'd all be very dumb when you're grown-up."

Peter rolled his eyes. He wasn't concerned whatsoever with the level of intelligence he may or may not possess once he was an adult. He could care less about being one, for every adult he knew was a simply horrible person.

"But in this case," said the headmistress, "I've planned a small holiday for us. We're going to go into town tomorrow and see one of the cyber circuses."

The class burst into cheers.

"And now you can rid your face of that condescending expression," said the headmistress to Peter, unable to contain her dislike for her most troublesome student. "Your behavior has earned you no right to go with us, but I will allow it with the hope that it will cure you of your insulting ability to daydream during my lectures. But if you _speak _to me in such a way again, you will find yourself marching home with a letter for your father."

Peter kept his mouth shut, as he usually did whenever his father was mentioned. Peter hated his father, and his father hated him. It was the one threat that could make him shut off his mind and think of words rather than speak them.

…

That is how Peter found himself staring into the lights under the wide, red and white striped tent, sitting on his hands and waiting for real, miraculous technological advances to awe and inspire. And when it finally arrived, he wished he still possessed the innocence of having not seen it.

The fairy flew towards him. The ringmaster was growing concerned—one could hear it in his voice. "And now the creation shows its amazing powers," he announced, "One can never be sure that our cyber techs have not discovered the particle that makes us humble minds wish to be like a god."

The crowd _ooh'd_ and _aah'd_ as the fairy grew closer to the stands. Some of them drew back in fear, but not Peter. His classmates shrunk back when the fairy reached them.

She had the biggest, most beautiful green eyes he had every seen. She seemed sort of young, and yet much older—but there was something juvenile in her movement, round cheeks, and curious expression.

Her green glow nearly blinded him, the spotlight lit them up, and whole crowd was suddenly hushed as they felt they witnessed something special.

The fairy whirred in place, wings beating the air. She held out a tiny hand no bigger than a sixpence. Peter held his breath, and she touched his bruised cheek, softly.

_Poor boy, _said a voice.

He winced, masking his shock with slight discomfort of touch. His jaw was still swollen, and she had noticed. But her hand was so tiny and gentle. It felt like the kiss of butterfly wings—but what was that voice? It couldn't have been _her… _she was an invention.

"I think our little creation is in love," boomed the ringmaster, and the whole audience began the uproarious applause and screams again. Peter's classmates burst into a great laughter at his expense.

The fairy flinched as if it hurt to hear it. She looked at Peter as if it was his fault, then she backed away, flying once more towards the center of the ring. She did one last loop, bowed, and retreated to her birdhouse. Peter stared at the tiny green glow visible through the miniature doorway until the entire show was over.

The fairy was all he could remember from that night.

He could not speak a word as they left the tent, and all his classmates laughed and jabbed him with their elbows, crowing about how he was in love with a _cyberfairy. _

But Peter had a growing suspicion that she was no such thing.

"Keep up, now," said the Headmistress, clapping her eyes and guiding the children towards the cabman that waited near the cobblestone street. "It's a school night and your parents want you home."

Peter slipped to the back of the crowd. They were walking down a sidewalk, passing between two large buildings. One was a bank, and the other, a café. The café had an open back porch, with tables under candle-lit canopies and a small garden enclosed with a wrought-iron fence.

Slim like a shadow, Peter slipped between the bars of the fence, and ducked down quietly behind the shrubbery. Eventually, the annoying chatter of his school-fellows died down, and they had departed for their homes.

Peter stood up from behind the shrubbery.

"Oi, you there!" snapped one of the restaurant customers, pausing in mid-bite. "What you doin' back there?"

"What are you doing here?" Peter snapped back.

The man blinked, confusedly. "I'm eatin' a late supper, what's it to you?"

"I guess that's all right, then, carry on," Peter shrugged aimlessly, slipped between the fence stokes again, and went back the way he had come.

London streets were no place for a young child to roam when night had fallen and the gas lamps were lit. A dense, black fog had settled in every recess, making Peter feel limited in his senses. One could not see what was in front of him till he had happened right upon it. Every shadow seemed threatening, and every creak of a carriage wheel sounded more like the hinge of a coffin lid. There were mutterings and voices coming from alleyways and tavern entrances.

A rat scurried over Peter's feet and leapt into the storm drain across the road. Its beady, red eyes followed Peter's progress, and then withdrew, deep into nothingness.

Out of the darkness rose the immense shape of the circus tent. It was still bustling with activity, though all who paid to be there had long gone home. There were workers, trainers, dancers, gymnasts, clowns, cyborgs, and all manner of folk coming to and fro from the tent entrance, circling around the left and going into boxcars labeled particularly for them. Peter kept close to the side of the brick building that bordered the field where the tent and boxcars were pitched. He scanned the elaborate painted titles on the ridged sides of the boxcars—_Clowns, Robotics, Lion, Elephants, Ladies, Magics & Tricks & Props._

And finally, _Fairy Workshop. _

Peter crept forward, staying in the shadow of the brick building for as long as he could. Then he broke away, trotting soundlessly, till he lay pressed against the side of a boxcar. He hopped from the darkness alongside of it to the next one, and then the next, invisible and darting like a creature not from this world.

The sliding door was rusted, but luckily, it was not shut all the way. Peter waited until it seemed the workers and performers were not looking towards his direction, then he slipped around the front of the boxcar, exposed in the circus lights for a split second. Then he hopped onto the ladder rung, grasped the door handle, and pulled himself up and inside the car. It was dark inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

It was a workshop, like the title said. Every wall was covered from floor to ceiling with boxes and cages, and littering the middle were large drafting tables, covered in more cages and more boxes. Inside, though it had seemed smaller at first, it was a labyrinth that combined every attic to ever be worried over by an adult. Peter began to step over and around the junk, spotting a lamp, an old mechanical doll with its eyes missing, a music box turned over, a stack of firewood, a box full of gossamer and sheer fabrics made with neon colors.

But most of all, there were clocks—clocks everywhere. Grandfather clocks, little clocks, mantle clocks, pocket watches—they were _everywhere. _Stacked, broken, whole, empty of all its inner workings, glass faces shattered, hands missing, wood chipped…

There was one, still ticking, a pocket watch with a gold face. It seemed unbearably loud to Peter, his beating heart in synchronization with the tocks. He pulled a tiny penknife from his pocket, and weighed both his urge—and his knife—in his hand. The pocket watch sat on a box. _Tick tock, tick tock._

Peter made a fist around the handle, driving downward. The blade went through the glass, shattering it. Two gears ground together, and whined loudly, till something _sprung _and the hands ceased altogether.

Blessed silence, where time was an illusion, just the way it ought to be.

"That's better," Peter said, replacing his penknife in his pocket.

_You're different than the others, _said a voice. It was feminine and soft, and Peter knew the thought was not his own.

"Who's there?" he whispered.

_Here, _the thought brushed by like a breeze.

Peter maneuvered to the back of the boxcar. Stacked on top of a crate, and bending beneath the weight of an old trunk, there was a rusty old cage. Sitting inside, hugging her knees to her chest, was the fairy.

"You," Peter exclaimed, coming as close to the bars as he could. "You spoke. In my head! Didn't you?"

She smiled, faintly. _Would you get me some water? _Her mouth never moved.

"Yes," Peter said, uncertainly. He turned back to the giant drafting table, where there was signs of someone using it as a current workspace. There was a mug of cold coffee sitting by a tin full of tiny, sharp tools. There was a half-eaten doughnut crawling with ants beside a cup full of pencils. He found a canteen full of stale-smelling water. He lifted it, and walked back to the cage, weighing it in his hand uncertainly.

Brightening, he unscrewed the cap, filled the cap with water, and pushed it gently through the bars of the cage.

Her wings whirred to life, but she only used them to push herself to her feet, then she walked disjointedly. The cap was like a bowl for her, but she lifted it anyhow and drank deeply from it. She gulped and gulped till it was empty. _Another?_

Peter repeated the gesture, and she drank it dry. She wiped smears of water from her mouth and grinned. There was something very beautiful but goblin-like in her smile.

"How can you drink water if you're… you know," Peter nodded at the cogs and gears still shifting and clicking, exposed with brassy colors in her joints and neck. "Made out of clocks?"

_I am real, _she replied, eyebrows furrowed and frown deepening. _I was captured and they brought me here. When I woke up, they had attached these things to me. They opened me up, _she stretched out a forearm to demonstrate, _And replaced my joints with these. And now they claim I am an invention. A scientific experiment. They made me a cyborg. I am a living being! _

Peter felt sick to his stomach at the thought, but he tried not to show it. The circus lights did nothing except blind their audiences to the cruelty behind the curtain. "If they didn't make you, where do you come from?"

_A long, long way from here._

"So—Ireland?"

Suddenly, there was a chime of tiny, twinkling bells, sounding not unlike the merry jingle of sleighbells on a snowy, Christmas eve. Peter realized it was the sound of her laughter.

"America?" he tried again.

The bells were a cacophony. She brushed a tiny tear from her cheek, and the gears in her neck squeaked as if they might rust over.

"It's not funny," Peter said, rather disappointed. "Listen—I don't know why I came back to see you. I was just drawn here, is all. But I certainly didn't come here to be laughed at. I get plenty of that at school, all right?"

The fairy ceased her laughter and sobered instantly. _I understand. It's just that humans tend to underestimate just how far away my people are. _

"There's more of you?"

The fairy slowly pointed up.

"You live in the trees?"

She shook her head, finger still up.

"You come from the sky?" Peter repeated, and she still remained poised. "Space?" he asked, weakly.

_I will show you, if you want. _

Peter nodded numbly. "All… all right. But why me?"

_Because you are different. _

"How so?" Peter felt his defenses building. He felt ready to be offended.

_Men want to capture me, change me, make progress with science and cybertechnology. They only care about their advances and will torture and kill their way to the future. Children throw stones, prod with sticks, giggle with the suffering of small creatures, or capture us and put us in cages to draw us or dress us in little harnesses. Women will scream and lift their skirts and stomp us with their boots. I've seen it. I've seen what happens to strange animals that do not possess the strength to fight back. _

Peter had to admit she was right., though he had never thrown rocks at birds with slingshots like the other boys. He never thought about it.

_But you, you're different. You aren't like the other children. _

"I won't be a child forever," Peter whispered hoarsely.

_But you want to be. That's what makes you different. You don't want to grow up so that you can wear a top hat to the office and sit behind a desk signing papers for the rest of your life. You don't want to become what you've seen others become. Man has disappointed you—so you won't become one._

"You sure know a lot for living in a cage," Peter cried defensively. "How do you know so much?"

_I spent a lot of time watching your world from the stars before I came down to see it for myself. That is how I was captured. But first, I observed. I was silly to think that I could escape from here—I should have known better. But being here is far different than observing from a safe distance. I only saw the good things._

"But how do you know so much about _me?_ Have you been spying on me?"

_You aren't so hard to read, you haven't been shielding your thoughts._

"You can read my thoughts?"

_Only a little. Not the words, only a sense of them. I can sense your fear of the future—both yours—and mine, nothing but circus freak. _

Peter was silent. "I cannot help the future," he said, finally breaking the pause. "I will be a man someday. I will work for a living and someday take my children to see a cybercircus." He spoke like the cybers now, robotic and monotone. The depression of his future crushed all life from his voice. "And this will be nothing but a strange memory."

_Unless you set me free, _the fairy wrapped her hands around the bars and pressed her face to them. Her luminous green eyes were pleading. _I can take you away. I can show you my world. What do you say?_

"This is what you had in mind, then?" Peter asked. "Embarrass me in front of my school mates so that I'd come back and set you free?"

Now, it was the fairy's turn to scoff offensively. _I had no idea you would come back. That was your decision. But when I saw you in the circus tent, I knew you were different than the others. I just… had to say hello to you. I didn't think I'd ever see you again. If I knew you'd return, I could have just asked you to free me then. The way I'm asking now. But I think you_ want_ to set me free—why else would you come back?_

"I just couldn't stop thinking about how sad you looked," Peter whispered. "I needed to see for myself that you were just clockwork."

_And now?_

"Now that I see you aren't, I have to set you free, of course. No creature should be a slave…" Peter began working at the latch. "Never, ever." He picked up a heavy paperweight from the desk and hit the lock, sharply, _bang! Bang! Bang!_

It was bent out of use, and Peter managed to slip the latch out, and the cage creaked open. She grasped the bars and stepped out, carefully, taking deep breaths.

_I don't have a lot of strength. It takes all I have to fly around the tent every night. For the rest of the day, I am locked in that. _She held out a tiny hand. _I must build up my endurance again if we are to go home._

Peter took her hand in his, with his fingertips, as gently as he could so that he would not accidently crush her. "What about my home?" he mused out loud. She crept up his arm, seating herself on his shoulder. She clung to his jacket and his hat to keep from falling.

_Return me to mine. And then we'll see._

"That seems awfully suspicious."

_Do you want to go home?_

"No," Peter replied sharply. "Never."

_Then come home with me._

"My father…"

_Will he search for you?_

"I… I don't know."

_Then what kind of father is he?_

Peter shuddered suddenly, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

...

"It's for school," Peter was trying to explain, hovering just out of his father's reach. "We're learning about cyber technology."

"What a waste of your time and my money," his father replied, lacing his fingers together and pressing them like a steeple to his lips. "But I suppose everyone should be educated about fools sometime—it keeps you from becoming one yourself."

"Yes," Peter gulped involuntarily, "That's it."

A pause—heavy and oppressing. Peter cursed himself inwardly for appearing nervous—showing weakness to his father was always the first misstep.

"Are you afraid of me?" asked his father, his voice quiet.

"No, sir."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not, sir."

His father stood up—immense, ruddy-skinned, eyes flashing. He jarred the small table with his knee, causing the half-drunk glass of rum to nearly spill its edges. He almost stumbled. "Peter," he said, all too slowly. "You know I love you, don't you?"

Peter fought the urge to run. _I am not a coward, _he thought. "Yes, sir."

"Sometimes when we love someone, we must discipline them."

"Yes, sir."

"So," his father spoke deeply, clearing his throat. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No," Peter shivered.

"_I said," _his father suddenly shouted, saliva flying in strands from his lips, "_NOT TO LIE TO ME!" _He slapped Peter so hard that he flew in a semi-circle before crashing to the floor. "Now I ask another," he said, calmly, reaching behind him to the glass of rum. He took a long swig and swallowed before continuing. "Are you a liar?"

"Y-yes," Peter coughed, touching the tender reddening of his chin. "Yes I am."

"You will never succeed if you are a liar. The real world has no place for them. You must grow up, join the business, make money—live a real life—I will _not,_" here, his father swayed slightly, "I will not see you become the slobby whore that gambled his way into debt and abandoned his wife and only son…" Something seemed to break in his expression. "I can't let you suffer the way I suffered."

"I suffer in entirely different ways, thanks to you," Peter snarled, feeling a place on his lip that was split. A tiny droplet of blood waited in the corner of his mouth. "You've failed in ways that Grandfather never did. At least he left you alone. I would do anything if you would leave _me _alone."

The next hit came so hard that his father's fist knocked him into the wall, causing him to nearly lose consciousness. Peter looked up with bleary eyes, completely dazed.

"How dare you, you ungrateful little ingrate," his father roared. "You—you think you're so special—that you can just frolic your way through life like a little flute-playing Pan—you're never serious enough—I do all the work—me! I work so hard to provide for you! And I receive nothing—NOTHING—in return! Life—life isn't a fairy tale. We are not fauns in a wood, we are humans, we have to suffer—we have to learn our lessons—it's life—real life—are you listening, you little bastard?"

"I… I…" Peter's head lolled back. He couldn't remember what they were arguing about. He was so dizzy.

His father dropped to his knees, his mood swiftly changing like the disappearing acts of the magicians. "Peter?" he said, panicking. "Peter—son—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—wake up, wake up…"

Peter's head felt too heavy. He could hardly respond. _I will not fall asleep, _he said vaguely to himself, _I won't. I can't._

"Peter, I'll let you go to the circus. I'll do anything," his father blubbered with his typical abuser's remorse, hoping his own guilt will earn Peter's sympathy when he knew he would never gain his love. "You know I'm a very bad father and I make mistakes, don't you? You know I don't mean it?" He shook Peter's shoulders. "Wake up!"

Peter blinked blurrily. "Ugh," he moaned.

"Thank god," his father kissed him on top of the head, and it made Peter's skin crawl. Gooseflesh prickled his arms and the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated, over and over. "You—you can go to the cyber circus. Of course you can. I'm, I'm a good man, remember? I'll do anything for you. What else would you like, hm? Money for popcorn? You—you stay right here. I'll get some for you." Emotions wracking him, fighting for dominance inside his drunken mind, he stood shakily and stumbled out of the room.

Peter sat up, slowly, feeling a knot on the back of his head. Every memory was like this. His father's rage, his drunken apologies. Promises and gifts to try and win him over. It worked when he was younger—but now—all he could see was the vicious cycle. His father's assurances that he would change, improve, and become different… he could not count on them. All adults were like this. The cruel ringmaster. His lifeless teacher. His drunken father.

_I will never be any of them._

_..._

When Peter could not answer, the fairy touched the dried scab at the corner of his mouth with a soft hand. _Don't think about him anymore._

Peter felt resolute. "You're right. I don't have to. I've never had the strength to run away before…"

_I've never had the strength to run away, either._

"But together…"

_No one can stop us._

"What do they call you?"

_The Flying Tin-Woman._

"I mean—your name. From your home. What are you called?"

_I am Tinkerbell. And what are you called?_

"Peter. Peter Jones."

_You should leave your surname behind. It is your father's name._

"Peter, then," they approached the door of the boxcar. He heard his father's voice again. _You can't just frolic your way through life like a little flute-playing Pan…_

_Just watch me, _Peter thought, pain racing through his heart, at the thought of escape—a thought he had never truly entertained before tonight. "Peter Pan," he said, out loud.

_It is a pleasure to meet you, Peter Pan. _The tiniest pair of pink lips pressed to his cheek. _My rescuer. _

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**please review :) thank-you! **


	3. A Way to the Stars

_Dear readers,_

_Thanks for the positive feedback! I'm sure you know that this "novel" is being posted as I write it, and it is in no way a final draft. For example: today I went through and "tweaked" several things in the first chapter, and added some very Neil Gaiman-esque descriptions of the cybercircus. I know the first chapter is vastly improved now, but unfortunately it is not the same version you guys have read. In a way, I'm forcing you all to be my guinea pigs. If you have any thoughts on story, or questions about characters, ask away! Also, you can follow my progress on my tumblr, at .com... looking forward to hearing from you._

_Pippin_

_PS: You'll find a familiar "auction" scene that I'm using in my Avatar: The Adventures of Pan fan fiction. This isn't really on accident. I reuse and borrow a lot of my own ideas for "original" works. Since my fan fiction won't be published since the characters/worlds aren't mine, but I like to take back my original ideas whenever I can ;) _

* * *

**peter punk**

**a peter pan origin story**

**by m.s.**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**A Way to the Stars**

Peter had spent nights on the streets before, but he always had the intention of returning after his father had calmed and slept the drunkenness away. This time was different—he would never return. It almost made him too afraid to sleep.

He awoke under a burlap sack on a rooftop, pressed between the raised sill of a skylight and the brick of a chimney. He shivered in the cold mist of the early morning, where it was quiet, save the creaking of a single carriage and the sounds of shop doors opening and closing. Soon the market would be alive, and Peter would no longer be hidden from undesirable gazes as he climbed down the drainpipe.

He always preferred being higher, the height made him feel less vulnerable. He could see anything coming that way. On the nights his father would rage, sometimes he'd climb out his bedchamber window and sit on the roof, staring at the moon. Many people feared heights, for reasons Peter could never understand. Climbing was synonymous with escaping. Staring down at ant-sized people made his problems feel smaller, too.

Tinkerbell slept on his shoulder, her legs under the lapel of his raggedy coat, arms pulled into her chest and Peter's slightly longer-than-polite hair shielding her face. When he sat up, trying to coax his body into alertness, she stirred and yawned.

_We'll need money, _Tinkerbell spoke, sullenly.

"Good morning to you too," Peter answered, "I have enough for breakfast, maybe. But anything we'll need after that… I suppose we could steal it."

_Then we'll both be fugitives. _

"We already are."

_We're runaways. There's a difference. We're not on the run from the law yet, are we?_

"But I stole you, didn't I?"

_Oh… yes. I suppose you did. No one believes I have free will. _

"That will change when you get home, won't it?" Peter shrugged out from under the sack, and Tinkerbell stood up on his shoulder.

_Going home requires money. _

"How do we get to your home, anyway? Out in space?" Peter stretched his arms. Tinkerbell lifted up, her wings buzzing tiredly, back and forth.

_I would fly, if I were strong enough. My wings are too brittle—it will take awhile. I don't want to wait that long, so we shall find another way. _

"I can't fly," Peter responded dryly.

Tinkerbell looked at him, her eyes blazing excitedly. _Not yet._

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Tinkerbell looked up into the sky, her long, pointed ears twitching as if she could hear some sort of sub sonic sound that humans could not.

"What is it?"

She was smiling slightly, but the smile faltered as the beat between her throbbing wings slowed, and she drifted slowly back to Peter's shoulder, like a leaf forcibly cut from a tree. _I think I hear our way out, _she said, her voice tired. _At least until we can fly. _

"You," corrected Peter, "Until _you _can fly."

Tinkerbell smiled condescendingly, the way an adult plays along with a child who believes in Father Christmas. _Yes, _she responded lightly, _until I can fly. _

Peter could tell that she was still unconvinced. Clearly she was more ignorant about humans than she believed, mistaking Peter for the sort of person who could physically leave the ground of his own choosing and remain afloat. Her perception of their potential to escape together, Peter realized, was more ridiculous than he previous thought.

If she could regain her strength to fly, she'd be flying alone.

_And then she'll leave me down here, _Peter thought, surprisingly bitter about a person he had only just met. The thought of her returning home—and abandoning him because he could not fly—was unbearable. It did not take long, but Peter felt something like a fierce desire to never lose her. Something sort of like a love one might have for a friend.

But he had no experience. He couldn't tell what it was.

…

The sun had risen, the fog cleared, and the streets erupted with life—crowds and carriages and carts and carnivores. Peter and Tinkerbell stopped at a tiny shop and bought two rolls of bread, with Tinkerbell hiding inside his jacket. She stood with her toes pushing against his belt, wrapped her arms around his left suspender, and he buttoned his coat halfway. If he was discovered with her, she was certain to be returned to the circus—to perform as a slave or be killed—and he would be returned to his father, to live in fear—

Peter made a quiet decision that, should the worst occur, he would rather die than live with his father again. He would try to set Tinkerbell free, first. And then he would set himself free—jump from a rooftop, the highest he could find. He forced himself to shake the thoughts away quickly. He couldn't afford to think like they were defeated already.

_Let's hide in that alley and eat. I don't want anyone to see me, and we can talk without people thinking you're talking to yourself._

Peter ducked between two buildings, and sat behind a large wooden crate full of straw and trash. Checking both ends of the alley—one behind shrouded by a broken-down cart—he opened his jacket and let Tinkerbell out.

She buzzed around gaily for a minute, and then sat, criss-cross, on Peter's knee. Peter set her roll in front of her, and she stared at it for a moment, overwhelmed. Finally, she broke off a portion the size of a coin and at it in three bites.

_This is the fullest I've felt in a long time, _she declared with a content sigh.

"You hardly ate anything at all," Peter scoffed, eating half of his own roll. He saved all the rest in his pocket, knowing they may not be able to afford food for a long time. He'd never run away for more than a few hours before, so he could only imagine how quickly they could starve to death. After all, this was London. His teacher had taken great care to warn them about how many dirty street urchins were found dead in sewers, as an incentive to staying in school.

Before now, Peter had considered this information useless.

_Now that we've eaten a glorious meal, _Tinkerbell said cheerfully, _Let's find a way home._

"I have a feeling that you already have an idea of how to do it," Peter pointed out. "Are you going to tell me, or keep me in suspense?"

_I have a theory, _Tinkerbell teased. _I think I hear something. Something that can help us. I will tell you where to go—just follow my voice. _

"Your voice is in my coat."

_You know what I mean, _Tinkerbell exclaimed. Food seemed to brighten her whole countenance. She had energy and life, two qualities she lacked the night previous.

"Um—no one else can hear you, right? Because we'll draw too much attention to ourselves if everyone can hear you."

_I choose who can hear me. It is only you._

"I'll have to try not to talk to you out loud, it may be difficult," Peter warned.

_I'm game if you are, _she said sassily.

"Where to, then, madam?" Peter grumbled.

_Silly ass, _Tinkerbell muttered affectionately. _Follow this street and turn left, towards the harbor._

Peter followed Tinkerbell's wild gestures and excited directions through the city. Through alleys to avoid detection, head bent low and eyes on the ground when they passed through public plazas, scampering through markets where adults screamed at Peter for being underfoot… it was nearly two hours later when they emerged between two warehouses, and were faced with the rolling brown waters of the river Thames.

Peter glanced at the slow, murky depths of the river.

"Are we going across?" he asked. He went to a viewpoint, a small, raised brick plaza with a small plaque directing their gaze to the Tower of London. He put his toes on the rod-iron fence and it lifted him just a few centimeters off the ground.

No matter where he stood, he longed answer to no one—especially the unrelenting laws of gravity. Even if it was just by a hand's breadth.

_No, we need to get down to the docks, where the ships are,_ Tinkerbell said.

"Ships… tugboats and freights…" Peter felt anxiousness creep into his heart. He didn't enjoy enclosed spaces… schoolrooms, home… a closet his father once shoved him into and locked him inside for a whole day… "We need a ride," he admitted, "As long… as we can stow away in something with a window, or access to the outside. I can't lock myself inside anything, even if it means getting away."

_It's not what you think_, Tinkerbell pointed up. The low-lying cloud cover, dense enough to be a fog that never fled from the sunlight, hovered over them.

"What?" Peter followed her gaze.

_Damn, _Tinkerbell muttered. _This would be far more impressive if you could actually see the ship. _

With realization, Peter looked at the sky again, remembering the cyborg at the lights. The way he said _they _had made him like this. For some unknown reason, his mind put the two pieces together. _They, _and whatever awaited them in the sky, were one and the same. "The cyborg technology," he said uncertainly, "They can fly now, can't they?"

_Horseless carriages are child's play by comparison. They have advanced beyond civilian comprehension, which only goes as far as freaks in the circus or the medical field. The same sort of people who can make a clock-fairy can turn a ship into a great bird._

"Geniuses," Peter responded, but at Tinkerbell's hurt expression, he added, "And yet… horrible people."

_Progress should not be synonymous with cruelty. _

"And you want to seek the help of these people?"

_This is not just returning to a country estate. We have no other options. Traveling to another planet is risky. We don't just need a vehicle; we need safe passage. _

"I don't suppose," Peter hesitated, "That… as a fairy… you've got some sort of magic, do you?"

_I am, by your standards, a fairy. Where I come from, I am a Fen, an organic person. My powers come from my home, my environment, my diet—it's complicated. I'll show you, when we get there. _Tinkerbell shifted so that she could peer over his coat collar, resting one elbow over the edge the way some girls lean over a fence to catch the eye of the passerby on the other side. She grinned. _I have no magic spells or incantations to make us travel any easier. Would we have walked all this way if I did? I would have regained the full use of my wings long before now._

"I'm—sorry I asked."

_Don't be sorry. I like your curiosity. Always ask! _

Peter was thoughtful. He looked at the clouds again, wondering what floated beyond them. A ship… thinning air… black space… stars within his grasp… it was also cold, and lonely, and there was no air for him to breathe. And yet it was enticing.

Peter swallowed. "It is the means to get you home."

_Us, don't forget. We're in this together now—you and I. It'll be OUR home. My people will welcome me back, their little lost girl, and then accept you as one of their own._

"Like a family?" it made his heart ache.

_Yes! _She looked up at him, wondering. She could see he was still hesitant, and if possible, growing more so. It seemed like those who suffered the most by a parents hand still fought regret for escaping—the guilt was enough to drag him back, apologizing for nothing to his father. Even if he wasn't homesick, he was more afraid of him than ever. _Don't weaken your resolve now. It will be worth it._

"Maybe a few hours of freedom is better than none at all," Peter said tiredly. "This—this could be the most foolish thing I've ever done."

_You sound like a man, _she scoffed, _But you aren't. You're a boy, and meant to live. _

Peter considered this, his eyes betraying his confliction. "I'm afraid to go back… I'm afraid to go forward, too."

_If you go back, you'll die. _Tinkerbell poked him with a tiny finger over his heart. _You'll die in here._

Peter thought about going home and facing his father. Facing school. Facing a fist, a bruise in the mirror, laughing classmates.

He remembered daydreaming, and remembered the bird outside of the classroom window. The same kind, warbling and whistling, flew overhead. Then it lifted up, rising out of sight and into the thick clouds. A sign, perhaps.

"Which way down to the docks?" Peter asked.

…

There was a tower that rose out of the docks, a lighthouse structure but without the light, nor the ability to see past the third story because of the fog. The wooden slats of the dock wrapped around the base and went out to the water, ripples lapping and splashing between the cracks and soaking Peter's feet as they approached the doors.

It was busy, and they were allowed to pass through relatively unnoticed. Crowds of sailors, dock workers, businessmen, repairmen, shipwrights, and almost every other profession stood in long lines, coming and going. There were shouts, laughter, announcements, cries of fresh fish and some sort of auction going in the corner.

The inner lobby of the lighthouse looked like a train station, with a few pews were people waited, counters with stern looking conductors standing behind them, and clusters of with papers in their hands. Peter stood, uncertainly, grateful that Tinkerbell's voice was in his head, otherwise he would never hear her above the din.

_I think we're supposed to get tickets, _Tinkerbell said. _But I have a better idea. Guaranteed passage. Let's try and get a job instead._

"As a cabin boy?" Peter said. "I—I could do that. Maybe. I've never had a job before. I always thought I'd work in an office someday, like my father."

_Don't wait in line, go to that auction going in the corner. I think people are selling their skills._

Peter held his head a little higher, trying to appear more like a swarthy cabin boy than a sullen runaway. He approached the auction in the corner, were men were shouting from atop a small platform.

"A cook! A cook for the voyage! Your last cook give your lads too much poisonings from that god-awful meat? This lad promises your steaks fully-grilled! Anyone? Anyone? Yes—Captain Swan, from the _Victory, _needs a cook—aha! And Captain Sherman! Captain Sherman of the _Crossbow Lady! _Who can offer this cook the best wages—let's see your hands—hm, wages higher for the _Crossbow Lady, _lad!"

"Destination?" called the cook, his white apron hanging below his coat edge.

"South Africa," responded Captain Sherman.

"South America!" shouted Captain Swan. The two captains glared at each other.

"Wasn't there a disease outbreak the last time you went to South America?" the cook demanded suspiciously.

Captain Swan grumbled something about raw water.

"I'll go to Africa," said the cook, "I don't want to get sick just from drinking water!"

"No surprise there, the ones that offer better wages win again," cried the auctioneer. "Who's next? Who's next?"

Peter bit his lip, and tried not to think about how nervous he was. He stepped onto the platform.

"Hi-ho, there, lad! You're a young one! How old are ye?"

"Almost fourteen."

"What's your line of work, son?"

"Cabin boy," Peter replied, trying to hold his chin high. "I can be a Captain's assistant, too. I can read and write and deliver messages."

The auctioneer whistled. "We have us an educated one, yessir! A cabin's boy willing to do just about anything, I think!" He leaned down and joked, "The Mrs. at home givin' you trouble?"

Peter adopted as innocent a look as he could muster. "Not after I send her my paychecks, sir."

The auctioneer laughed, and so did the bidders surrounding them. "And yet another young scalawag sent away by his folks to earn them a little cash! You know you'll get a _lotta _work out of this one, his family is dependin' on him! What have we got? Anyone? A nice cabin boy, hard worker!"

He reached over and squeezed Peter's arm to see if he was as skinny as he seemed. It was all Peter could do to not flinch away. Tinkerbell tugged on his suspender to remind him.

"And a strong one, too! How'd you get so strong, laddie?"

"I climb lots of trees… and rooftops, too."

"You hear that? He's a climber! You can put 'im to work in the ropes and the crow's nest! Now I haven't got all day! Any bids? Aha! Officer Matthews of the _Star Maiden! _Captain Peters of the _Desert Raider! _Captain Arrow of the _Nautilus_!"

"Um—destination?" Peter asked, trying to sound like the previous worker.

"To the mines on the planet St. George," said Captain Arrow.

"To the uncharted Asian islands," said Captain Peters.

"To seek new worlds for the Commonwealth beyond our galaxy, destination unknown," said Officer Matthews, with a greedy expression.

_The third. They will come across my planet, I'm sure of it. If they don't—we shall trick them into going—I know we can. This is it! This is the one!_

"The Star Maiden, if you please, sir," Peter bowed in his direction.

"Sold!" said the auctioneer, slapping Peter on the back. "Possible alien threat for exploring worlds unknown, and he chooses without even hearing the wages! You've got the bravest lad I've seen today, Matthews!"

"I certainly hope so," said Officer Matthews, holding out his hand.

Peter stepped off the platform and shook his hand. It was cold, and clammy, and seemed to put too much strength into the shake. "It's an honor."

"Your name?"

"Peter," he forgot, and almost used his real name. "Pan. Peter Pan."

"Are you on the run from the law?"

"No."

_And yes, hehehe… _

"Good. Then follow me."

_This is it, Peter. We've done it, we've done it… _

Officer Matthews led back through the crowds, Peter trailing along behind him. Instead of heading through the front doors, he went to the spiral staircase in the corner of the lobby. Grasping the iron railing, he went up as a brisk pace.

They came into a second room, this one much smaller, with a few benches against a wall and a counter with a sleepy-looking old man behind it.

Along the wall, there was a wide window and double glass doors, looking out onto a balcony built of the same wood as the docks below. There was a gangplank perched at the edge of the dock between an opening in the railings. It tilted up at a sharp angle until it disappeared into the clouds.

Peter thought it looked very odd… a ramp into the sky. A real-life Jacob's ladder.

"Benson," said Officer Matthews, "Add Peter Pan to the manifest."

"Yes, sir," said Benson, yawning.

"I'm off to hire another one," Officer Matthews said, "Stay here until I come back."

"Yes, sir," Peter replied, sitting promptly onto a bench.

When Officer Matthews returned downstairs, the only sound in the room was Benson's ink pen scratching away at a paper.

_There was something odd about him, _Tinkerbell sighed. _I'm so impatient to get going. _

"We'll get there," Peter responded without thinking. He shot a look at Benson, who wasn't paying attention at all. In fact, he showed no indication that he could hear anything. "How am I to hide you?" Peter whispered.

_Hm, I hadn't thought of that. I suppose I'll stay in your cabin. You can take off your jacket and I'll hide inside of it until everyone leaves. Then I'll practice my flying while you're working._

"I don't suppose you'll do any work?"

_Oh, believe me, I'll be pulling my weight and yours when my wings are properly flying again._

"What does that mean?"

_You'll see._

…

Not more than five minutes crawled by before Officer Matthews returned, towing another worker behind him. This one was older than Peter, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with strange, black spiky hair that seemed to stand up at an angle that hair should not.

"Come on," Officer Matthews said impatiently.

Peter stood quickly and fell into line beside them, taking in a deep breath as soon as they passed through the doors to the balcony. The air was chilly and pierced Peter's jacket like ice, and Tinkerbell seemed to shiver.

_I know what you're thinking, _she chuckled, _yes, it IS cold in space—but I am wired not to feel it. But the cold of London, however, I have no immunity to. _

Peter grinned and _hmph_'d slightly, earning a look of instant suspicion from Officer Matthews over his shoulder. He quieted immediately.

The other boy lagged behind. Peter passed him at the start of the gangplank, walking onto the wood supported by nothing with ease. Even without seeing what was ahead in the fog, he didn't need to hesitate.

But Officer Matthews turned around, and noticed the boy stopped at the edge of the balcony. "Come on, china boy," he snapped rudely, "This is not a ship for cowards. Hesitation may just cost you your recently-obtained job."

The boy looked up at him, a fierce look in his eyes. He stepped onto the plank, ignoring the creaking and the swaying. He kept both hands on the rope railings, not looking down. Peter waited for him, while Officer Matthews nodded curtly and walked ahead.

"Are you really from China?" Peter asked, somewhat excitedly. He had heard, in school naturally, about the Great Wall of China… and as a boy who loved to climb, sometimes he dreamed about walking its length and looking out over the foreign mountains.

"No," said the boy in a raspy tone. "I come from the Philippines."

"…Oh," Peter replied. He didn't know anything about that one. "Is… that a long way away?"

"It's a little ways away."

"Why are you in England?"

"I am fleeing the American occupation," he replied, shaking his head. "I decided to travel the world. And now I find myself in need of a… _paying_ occupation."

"Why choose this one?" Peter asked.

"For the same reason you do," he answered, "We are of the belief—as incorrect as it may be—that we shall find freedom in the stars when we have none in our own countries."

"Who says I'm looking for freedom?" responded Peter, defensively.

_Easy, Peter. _

"No one signs up for a voyage to the stars unless they _crave _it, or just need the money," the boy said charismatically. "And do you have a name to accompany this curiosity?"

"Peter Pan. What is your name?"

"Dante Ramos."

Officer Matthews disappeared into the fog, and shouted back, "I haven't got all day, boys. Front and center."

They came to the deck of a broad ship—a real sailing ship, but without sails, floating in the sky. Fog lapped at the sides of the ship like water. Peter's mouth dropped open at the sight of it. It was far beyond what he expected. Part of him expected nothing—a trick, perhaps—but to stand, feet firmly pressed against the wrought wood that was suspended in the skies… _that _left him beyond awestruck.

From the left, to the right, the length of the dock seemed to stretch into eternity. Massive masts made from the thickest of trees, and instead of canvas sails, floating above them were balloon-like shapes, made of shining metal, with rigging trailing down and tied to various poles, masts, and railings. Somewhere to the left in the fog, Peter knew the prow was pointed towards adventure. To the right, the deck went up into three or four levels of cabins—the officer's quarters.

The wooden deck seemed to hum under their feet, and Peter felt warmer than before. It was easier to breathe, too, and he hadn't even realized it had been a strain before.

_The same technology that kept me chained to the earth will set us free! _Tinkerbell said joyfully. She nearly laughed, but luckily the sound of the bells was cut short by Peter's hand, pretending to adjust the lapel of his coat. She was muffled, and then silent instantly, not wanting to jeopardize anything.

"Mary, mother of God," Dante hissed quietly, crossing himself.

In the middle of the deck, there were hatches made of thin, criss-cross pieces of wood, and Peter knew those would lead down to the rooms where he would probably be working. He looked up but could not spot the crow's nest, and grew distracted by the balloons that held the ship aloft. They could not be _real _balloons, not like hot-air balloons. They, like the deck, hummed with energy.

_That's the sound I heard, _Tinkerbell said, _That's what gave me the idea. _

"Welcome to the _Star Maiden," _Officer Matthews said without the wonder and respect that Peter and Dante now possessed. "We run a tight ship, here. Hard work and little pay, but I suppose neither of you will be complaining about that, since you're here for the view anyhow. We do not tolerate disobedience of any kind. If I tell you to fall to the ground and kiss the captain's _boots _you'd best do it without hesitation, or I will _personally _beat your asses with any blunt item within reaching distance. Understand?"

_I'll beat his ass, _Tinkerbell said hotly.

"Yes, sir," Dante and Peter said in unison.

"Good. I'll show you to your quarters. We don't launch till noon—so you'll have some time to get your bearings. We'll put you to work soon enough, though, so don't get too comfortable."

"Yes, sir."

Officer Matthews led to the hatch, and grasped a handle atop a small stand. He cranked it up and down, and two gears inside the stand ground together roughly. The hatch began to rise open wide enough for someone to descend the stairs under it.

Tinkerbell winced at the sound of the gears, and her own joints seemed to twitch restlessly. Peter pretended to adjust his suspender, but his hand gently patted her head. It was a small, comforting gesture, and the least he could do when it was obvious that the clock-like workings of a ship might be the cause of phantom pain.

It took Peter's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, he noticed with horror a faint green glow coming from his jacket. It was not visible in the daytime—but in darkness—

"Do something," he whispered, as quietly as possible.

_I'm trying! I can't make myself stop glowing. _

They came to a hall, with a small maze of rooms and turn-offs that led to the engine rooms, maintenance, the galley, the cabins, the cellars… Officer Matthews walked straight ahead, turned right at a T, and opened a small door in a line of eight others. He motioned Dante to go inside, and to Peter's surprise, shut the door behind him.

_Oh no._

Matthews faced Peter slowly, his eyes glinting. "What have you got hidden in your jacket, boy?" he asked.

"Nothing," Peter said, taking a step backwards.

"Something shiny—hm? Worth a pretty penny, perhaps?"

_I—I don't know what to do—_

"No, nothing," Peter protested again, taking another step. He bumped into the wall of the hallway. He didn't know his way around the ship—he had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. He'd gotten himself into this mess…

Matthews grabbed him by the scruff of the shirt and a fistful of his coat, nearly lifting him off his feet. He snarled like a rabid dog into his face. "WHAT YOU GOT, HM? WHAT HAVE YOU GOT?" He began to reach for his coat buttons.

_RUN, PETER!_

"Let the boy go, Matthews," said a fine voice, posh and gentlemanly.

Peter struggled out of Matthews' grasp and fell back, sliding against the wall till he was well out of reach. Matthews was blushing more with rage than with the embarrassment of being caught assaulting someone.

The man who had spoken stepped into the dim hallway light. He wore another officer's uniform, but his position was clearly a higher one. His coat was red, and his jet-black hair was pulled into a long ponytail. Despite the mustache reminding Peter of his father, his face appeared kind and honorable.

"The boy is acting suspicious," Matthews snapped.

"I am sure this will be dealt with," replied the other coolly. "Be on your way."

"Sir…"

"If I see you approach our cabin boys in any way that does not pertain to their job instruction, I will cut off your hands," the man in the red coat said, as if inquiring about the weather. "There are certain behaviors tolerated among pirates, but there is _no _tolerance aboard a ship sailing in the name of the king. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are dismissed."

Matthews stomped past Peter, his eyes sliding over him with seething anger, before disappearing down the hallway.

"I am the first officer of this ship," introduced the man in the red coat. "If he ever bothers you again, you tell me. Understand?"

Peter was clutching his coat shut, and nodded numbly.

_You're suffocating me in here. _

"My name is Jas Talen, and I am the First Officer of this ship," said red-coat, "What is your name?"

"Peter Pan."

"An interesting name. Tell me—Mr. Pan—why did Matthews feel the need to question you in his rather—unorthodox—way?"

"He believed I was hiding something," Peter answered honestly.

"Are you?"

"Perhaps."

_Peter, no, hush. _

"Why don't you show me whatever it is you are hiding," said Officer Talen, "And we shall determine what we are to do about it."

_Peter, he'll send me back._

"I don't think so," Peter responded.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," replied Officer Talen.

"No—I wasn't talking to you, sir," Peter said slowly. He couldn't afford mistakes like Matthews, cornering him in the dark and trying to steal his fairy. "I need someone—someone with power—on _our _side," he told Tinkerbell, slowly unbuttoning his coat. He held his hand out for her, and cringing, she stepped out from behind his jacket and into his hand. She stopped trying to quell her glow, and the greenish light lit the hallway ethereally.

Officer Talen was dumbfounded, and his mouth dropped open. "This—this is not what I was expecting," he said hoarsely, "A toy, perhaps. A keepsake. But a cyberfairy…" He shook his head. "Be honest, boy. Did you steal it?"

"No," Peter said quickly. "She was a captive. I set her free, and she wanted to stay with me."

"I may have to confiscate…"

"NO!" Peter shouted, taking a step backwards. "She's mine. You can't have her."

_Yes! _Tinkerbell chimed in. _I'm his and you can't have me! _

Officer Talen knelt down, taking a good look at Tinkerbell. Certainly, the clockwork joints and winding gears looked to be of scientific invention. But the way her green eyes stared sharply back, and the way her wings twitched uncomfortably—those were far beyond a cybertechs' power.

He noticed how her tiny, beautiful hands grasped Peter's sleeve, and clutched so hard that her knuckles glowed white among the green.

"She does seem to want to stay with you," Officer Talen said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would be best to leave this well enough alone. I did not see her here. She is not on the manifest. She must stay _well hidden._"

Suddenly, the cabin door opened. "Hello?" Dante yelled, shoved his head out. He noticed Peter, holding a brightly shining cyberfairy, and Officer Talen, staring back at them both.

"Bloody hell," Dante exclaimed. "Is that like those circus things?"

_Might as well announce to the ship that I'm here, _Tinkerbell thought exasperatingly.

"Why don't you go into your cabin," suggested Officer Talen, "And explain to your roommate what this is. And boys," he commanded, warningly, "Speak to no one of what has occurred. No one except you and myself must know of this. If word spread that we had a cyberfairy, pirates from every world would be after us—do you understand? She represents the idea of wealth and prosperity that you two could not _possibly_ comprehend."

"Yes, sir," Peter answered.

"Yes… sir…" Dante repeated, confusedly.

"Very good. I'll send someone down for you when it's time for assignment. Stay in your cabin. Now is _not_ the time for exploring or mischief."

"Yes, sir."

Officer Talen turned on heel and marched out of sight.

Dante held the door open for Peter. Peter stepped inside, and surveyed the cramped room. There were four bunks, two on either side, and a tiny water closet about two feet square with a door the size of a broom cupboard. Tinkerbell slipped off his hands and beat her wings against the air, trilling about, up to the ceiling, and down under the beds.

Dante followed her with his shocked eyes.

"She's a Fen," Peter said in the silence, with a shrug. "A fairy."

"I… I don't believe in real fai—" Dante began, when Tinkerbell flew through the air, faster than lightning, and pushed a hand against his lips.

_Do not finish that sentence, _she warned darkly, floating in mid-air before him.

He fell back against the lower bunk in surprise, pointing at Tinkerbell accusingly. "It spoke! It spoke in my head!"

Peter tried not to laugh. "She does that."

"I can't—she—what—" Dante spluttered. "Why—why couldn't I finish?"

_We Fen have a superstition—every time someone says, I do not believe in fairies, a star will go out. I'm not willing to put it to the test! _

"Are… are fairies and stars the same thing?"

_No, but for every star, there is a fairy. We coexist. _Tinkerbell whirred upwards, settling on one of the upper bunks. She let her legs hang over the side, and she swung them, enjoying the freedom of movement. _Enough stars have gone out for the skies to change drastically in a millennia. I'm not about to let you change the look of the galaxy just as we set sail! We look out for them, and they let us look into them._

"What does that mean, exactly?" Peter asked.

_It's a working relationship,_ Tinkerbell explained, _Stars work as portals and windows for us. It is by their allowances that I was allowed to watch the lives on Earth before I ever decided to explore it for myself. With their cooperation for such things, all Fen defend the stars from their lights being put out. We aren't exactly friends, but Fen need to be near them—just like humans find their air less polluted near the trees, we find our strength in the environment of the starlight… _

"She's _still_ speaking," Dante whispered to Peter. "It's—it's not a trick, is it? A hallucination?"

_Oh, excuse me, _Tinkerbell said sarcastically. _Didn't mean to inconvenience you._

"Easy, Tinkerbell," Peter answered, "Dante, she's a real fairy. She comes from… another planet. She has left the circus and wants to go home."

"And she'll be living in here with us? And the captain is okay with that?"

"The Captain doesn't know," Peter admitted, "The man outside was—um—officer Jas Talen, his name was. I hope you know that his commandment to secrecy is not debatable—after all, he's the first mate."

"Peter," Dante vowed, "I swear—I will tell no one about this. If there is anything I fear most in the world—it's pirates! I wouldn't do anything to risk _their _coming here or sacking us out in space." He paused, confused. "What happened to Officer Matthews? He just shut me in here and didn't say anything."

Peter and Tinkerbell glanced at each other.

_He suspects that I am here, _Tinkerbell explained, _but he did not see me. _

"Give me a warning or a shout if you see him, all right?" Peter asked. "I think he was going to try to steal Tinkerbell from me."

"Tinkerbell? That's your name?"

_It is! And it's certainly better than The Flying Tin-Woman that the circus called me. _

"Certainly," Dante said, concerned. "And if I see Officer Matthews… I'll… I'll whistle. Like this." He let out a six-note scale. "Anyone would think I was just whistling while I worked. You're all right, right?"

"Yeah, I'm all right," Peter crawled up the post to the upper bunk like it was nothing. He sat with his legs hanging over, like Tinkerbell. "I'm just… wondering what I've gotten myself into, is all. It's too late to turn back."

"You _are _running away, aren't you?" Dante asked. "You're so—young—to be out, alone…"

"There's nothing wrong with being young," Peter replied defensively. "I'd rather be young, and alone, then grow up with someone awful."

_You're not alone, _Tinkerbell added fiercely. She looked kindly at Dante. _Neither of you are!_

Dante finally gave in to a careful smile. "I've… I've never met a fairy before. I've read about them, in the papers… a praise of cybertechnology used in circuses to awe and inspire the crowds… but this isn't, I mean, she's not just a cyber, is she?"

_Now you're getting it, _Tinkerbell smiled back.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, someone stepped inside, and the door was slammed again behind him. A boy, about Peter's age, with wild red hair and buggish eyes, stood still and took in the scene before him. Two boys, having a chat, and a fairy, sitting beside them like it was nothing.

"Before you say anything," Peter began.

"Woo!" declared the ginger, grinning widely with relief. "I thot I'd git stuck with o' bunch o' sticks in th' mud! I kin see now that ain't so! If you lot kin 'ave a fairy, then I'm sure y'don't mind I brought a pipe! An' they tell me us boys ain't allowed to smoke!" He whipped a small pipe out of his pocket, and held it for Dante and Peter to see. "You don' tell 'em about m' pipe, an' I won't say nuffin' about y' fairy—are we square?"

Dante and Peter glanced at each other. The redheaded-boy began to light his pipe with a small match from his pocket.

_Yes, _Tinkerbell interjected, _We're square._

The boy glanced up, dubiously. "That's what I _said, _lady. We're square." He looked at the lower bunk across from Dante. "That one taken? No? Good, I'll have it—not too keen on heights m'self—get a wee bit dizzy, y' know what I mean?" He settled on the mattress, testing the springs, and made a face when he found none. "Got names, have ya, lads?"

"I'm Peter Pan."

"And I'm Dante Ramos."

"I'm Fawkes Slighterman—I'll be cooks helper—anythin' in particular y' lads like? I'll try and snitch 'em from the galley if I get th' chance. Why should the officers eat like kings when we eat scraps? Not on my ship, we won't." He threw himself back and crossed his legs, puffing happily on his pipe. "First thing I'm checkin' for is cake. I hope they got cake here." He lifted his leg, and poked Peter's hanging feet with the toe of his shoe. "Oi! You up there! You like cake?"

Peter stuttered, flummoxed. "Uh—yes—I suppose I do."

"Me too," Dante added.

"Good, it's settled then, first thing to find will be cake. And then maybe a bit of ale—I suppose y'boys don' drink, do ya? That'll change when we get among the stars. You'll want somethin' to warm y' op from the inside, mark my words. Space is cold an' empty and there's not a lass to be found there."

Dante looked aghast. "Well, I think _Peter _is a little young to worry about that."

"I would hope so," Peter added.

"One day, lad, you'll worry about 'em," Fawkes announced loudly. "One day!"

"Certainly," muttered Peter, giving Tinkerbell a look that meant he planned on no such thing. She beamed back at him, as if to say, _Never! _

…

Tinkerbell began to practice her flying, from top bunk to top bunk. For the next twenty minutes, Dante and Peter watched her and encouraged her, entranced by how her glow seemed to be brighter the more she exercised.

Fawkes didn't stop talking the entire time, pausing only to let a plume of smoke drift from his pipe, while Dante and Peter made affirming noises as if they were listening and agreeing with whatever he said.

"Suppose they catch us though?" Fawkes said thoughtfully. "I'll get a warnin', maybe a beating—but you lot? Caught w' a fairy? It could be the brig for ya—tossed o'erboard—maybe walking the plank int' space!"

Dante paled, but Peter's fears were more for Tinkerbell and less for himself walking a plank from a great height. After all, their secret had already been discovered not once, but nearly four times, within minutes of being on board. Could she trust him to hide her for an entire voyage?

"But you are good lads," continued Fawkes, "I kin see that—real gentlemen ya are—if it comes down to it, I'll cover for ya—hell, maybe I'll die for ya—we gotta look out for each other, all right?"

"Maybe we won't get caught if you shut up for just one second," Dante barked with growing irritation, still mulling over the idea of walking the plank into dead space.

Tinkerbell alighted on Peter's shoulder, taking a deep, tired breath. _He's right, though. _

"Don't be sour, mate," Fawkes protested.

"Listen," Peter interrupted before they could get caught in a petty argument, "This _is _dangerous, what we're doing. Fawkes is very much in the right. We can't bicker—and we can't sell each other out."

"We're brothers!" Fawkes declared, with feeling.

"I wouldn't say that, exactly," Dante replied uneasily.

"Oh, git over y'self," Fawkes said, "All right, we're here coz' we're desperate for money somehow—but we kin make it a bit easier on ourselves by lookin' out for each other."

"It wasn't so hard when you were promising to warn me with a whistle whenever Matthews came about," Peter pointed out Dante's apparent contrariness.

"That was different, it felt like a silly little game," Dante pointed at Fawkes. "His talkativeness makes me nervous!"

"So it's a game, then," Peter grinned, "Everything is a game. We just have to play it right."

"And be _brothers!_" Fawkes said excitedly.

"Oh, all _right,_" Dante sighed, "Brothers. Ha."

Fawkes smiled victoriously. Tinkerbell tugged on Peter's earlobe, and whispered for his mind only, _I'm very tired. I need to fly out in the sky—when we can. We'll have to sneak out sometime. I need to be close to the stars. _

"It's that coexisting thing, isn't it?" Peter questioned.

_Yes… it's not too complicated. I am a fish out of water, so to speak. I need to be among the stars, or, near the trees of my own world to function properly and at full capacity. Without the trees, the stars are my first source of strength and energy. _

"I've just the thing," Peter whispered. He leaned over the edge again, and blurted to Fawkes, "I want to work in the crow's nest sometime."

"An' they 'aven't assigned you yet? I got kitchen straight away."

"Not yet."

"Y'self?"

"Sort of," said Dante, "Though they mentioned needing aid in cartography. I am handy with drawing. When I told Officer Matthews that, he said I was hired."

"I said I was a good climber," Peter said, "And he told me I was hired. But—should they put me down in engines or something—I need word to go 'round that I'm good with height and ropes and masts and stuff. So that they transfer me."

"We'll do _anythin_' to help, won' we?" Fawkes promised.

"I don't know about _anything_," Dante wasn't quite eager to commit. "I wouldn't worry about it till you get assigned. It won't be long now."

...

* * *

**please let me know what you think!**


	4. Launching of the Star Maiden

**dear reviewers,**

**thank-you for your support, it is so, so appreciated. and yes, the name dante is a reference to the wonderful dante basco, voice of zuko in avatar and actor who played rufio in steven speilberg's 'hook'. **

**please enjoy!**

**-pippin**

* * *

**peter punk**

**a peter pan origin story**

**by m.s.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Launching of the Star Maiden**

A shrill horn sounded over the entirety of the ship, and a light knock came at the cabin door.

"All men lay up to main deck," said a voice, "In the future, lads, the horn means to report to your stations immediately. On the double!"

Peter jumped off the top bunk, nearly landing on top of Fawkes' head as he came out from his own. Dante opened the door and glanced nervously back at the fairy.

"What are we going to do about her?" he asked.

"Nothing," Peter answered. "Just wait here till we return." He slipped out of his jacket and tossed it onto the bed. "Remember, there's food in the pocket for you."

_I'll have some supper and practice my flying, _she waved him on. _Don't worry about me._

"I wasn't worried," Dante scoffed.

"Course you weren't, mate," Fawkes laughed heartily and pushed past him.

_I was talking to Peter!_

Dante sniffed and followed Fawkes down the hall. Peter gave Tinkerbell one last look before shutting the door… her eyes were encouraging him to go on and embrace whatever duties they handed him, but Peter felt growing concern about leaving her behind, like a neglected dog locked in a garden.

"Stay hidden, keep an ear out for a fourth bunkmate," Peter warned.

_You silly ass, go!_

Peter scrambled to catch up, jogging at a brisk pace till he came around the corner and stood at the base of the stairs. The hatch was closed overhead, but there was a handle coming from the wall just like the one above. Peter cranked the handle thrice, and heard the hatch creak as it opened.

With a grin, he skipped the stairs, jumped, and grabbed the bars of the hatch. It groaned slightly, but bore his weight as it lifted him out of the lower deck. He earned a few disapproving glances from adult sailors, standing at attention and waiting for instruction.

He swung his feet over the edge and darted towards the end of the line, sliding into place besides Dante and Fawkes, already standing in proper formation.

Peter felt slightly out of breath and not quite as proper as he could be.

The morning had cleared slightly in the town below, the cloud cover was still low enough to encase the entire view around the ship in a blank canvas of dirty white. Peter looked forward to the moment the ship lifted out of the fogs and into the starry sky of a glorious afternoon in space.

…

The doors to the main cabin on the poop deck came open, and officers came pouring out, many in dark blue, and some in bright red. Officer Matthews avoided any eye contact with them, and stood to the left of the door. The first mate, Jas Talen, looked out at them with a keen eye and a very subtle nod of approval.

"The captain is on deck," he announced, in a loud voice.

A shiny, black leather boot stepped out of the cabin, followed by the imposing figure of the Captain. His uniform was a lighter navy blue than the others, bejeweled with extra finery wherever there was space—gold buttons, a feather in his hat, a ribbon-ornament hanging on his chest that was probably some indication of rank and valor.

His large face was square, stern, and bearded. His eyes looked constantly watery because of their changing color in the lighting—befitting for a captain moving from oceanic voyages to the greater galaxy. He seemed to be accompanied by a whisper that said _hero, _simply by the way his tall stature was both regal and humble.

Everyone saluted, the cabin boys half a second late in doing so.

"You are relieved, Officer Talen," said the captain, in a gravely voice.

"I stand relieved," Officer Talen replied.

"At ease, gentlemen," the Captain said. "Report."

"I have organized the men to their stations," he answered, "They only wait to be dismissed to prepare for the launching. I have postponed the assignment of the new cabin boys to seek your approval for their placement."

"Very good—you are all to report to your designated stations. We launch within the hour—be ready. Cabin boys, please remain here."

Dante's ruddy hue went paler than Fawkes's already pasty complexion.

"Don't worry," Peter whispered, remembering how he hesitated over the gangplank. "They won't put you to work on the rigging. I'm sure of it."

The sailors left the line and returned to their work—some went down the hatch, others returned to the lines and ropes.

The Captain and Officer Talen came down from the poop deck, standing in front of the boys with critical expressions.

"Boys," said Officer Talen, "This is Captain Wesley. You will address him as 'captain' or 'sir'. Introduce yourselves."

"Dante Ramos, sir."

"Fawkes Slighterman, sir."

"Peter Pan, sir."

"You have not placed them in work stations yet," said the Captain, "Why?"

"I have reason to believe that the cabin boys we have in engineering and in errant-positions are sufficient, sir. But several of our department heads require assistants, and each of these lads possess skills uncommon among our typical recruits." Officer Talen pointed at Dante. "He has knowledge of some technical drawing skills."

"Is that so?" Captain Wesley nodded in approval. "Very well—Mr. Ramos, please report to navigation. You will be responsible for assisting the cartographers and sending information down to engineering."

"Yes, sir," Dante replied, with considerable relief.

"Dismissed to your station," said the Captain.

Dante bowed politely, turning and walking some distance down the deck. Then he paused, unsure of himself.

"Second hatch," called Officer Talen, "Second lower deck, third door, on the right."

"Thank-you, sir," Dante said, and with a grimace of embarrassment, he went to the hatch on the other side of the mast and descended into a different section of the ship.

"Fawkes Slighterman was already assigned to the kitchen," Officer Talen said, "But maintenance mentioned wanting him. I would argue, of course, that maintenance only needs the extra assistance because they are—shall we say—inefficient."

"You want them to make do with whom they have, and run the ship less efficiently?"

"I think the fear of God could perhaps make them work harder and faster. If we inform them they will not be receiving any more assistants, they cannot shirk their duties on someone younger and less experienced."

"I will be having a talk with them," the Captain said cryptically. "I will leave the decision to you."

"Thank-you, sir. Mr. Slighterman, report to the galley. Dismissed to your station."

"Yes, sir." Fawkes saluted dramatically, sporting a huge grin. He did not need any help finding the kitchen. He went directly to the second hatch and went down, whistling a cheerful tune.

"Officer Matthews tells me this boy has climbing skills and no fear of heights," Officer Talen informed the Captain.

The Captain stared at Peter with an unreadable expression, and Peter stared back defiantly, finding himself wishing he had Tinkerbell's voice in his head to make some remark. Oddly enough, he had grown used to it over the past twenty-four hours, and felt slightly empty without it.

"You wish him to work on deck in rigging, with the other sailors?" asked the Captain. "Unusual. We often put our cabin boys to work out of sight."

"Our spotters have requested someone younger and more agile to deliver messages from the upper decks and crow's nest down to the other stations."

"More agile? Should we have replaced our current crewmembers with spryer individuals?"

"I hardly think so. They have not grown less agile. But it is—in my belief—dangerous and foolhardy to ask of a man in a crows nest to shout directions down to a man on deck. Everyone hears a cry of 'land ho' or 'enemies off the port bow' but if the man simply finds that a star chart needs to be updated straight away, I find it would be preferable to send a messenger down the rigging hastily and our man need never tear his eyes from the horizon."

"It would be faster to send a young boy running all over the damn ship to deliver information to and from our man on the mast," the Captain replied, a bare hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. "And I expect we would train the lad to, one day, take his place? We have shifts for the day and night, but should one of them fall ill or tragedy befalls us…"

"We would need a third option, sir. And he can relieve our spotter's for a few hours here and there to keep them from becoming overexhausted."

"Very well," the Captain looked down at Peter. "Usually a position working above the masts—so near to the gas-bag and the rigid structures—is not often granted to a young child. I want your word that you will take this responsibility seriously."

Peter bowed. "You have my word."

"Sir," corrected Officer Talen sternly.

"Sir," repeated Peter quickly. "It is _for _this responsibility that I applied to be on board, sir."

"Hm," Captain Wesley said thoughtfully. "Your name—Peter Pan—that is an interesting surname. Pan was the god of shepherds and flocks—did you know that?"

"I…" Peter paused. "I know he played the reed flute, sir."

The Captain chuckled. "I expect you will not play a reed flute and lull us into an enchanted sleep?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Have you any flocks on board we should know about?"

Officer Talen's gaze was hard. Captain Wesley was clearly joking, but to Peter it almost felt like an interrogation disguised as banter. _No flocks of fairies, _he thought, _just one._

"Just my fellow cabin boys," Peter answered, calmly. "Though I reckon we'll do a much finer job on board than a group of sheep, sir."

The Captain laughed. "He'll get along with our man in the crow's nest just fine."

"I thought so too, sir," Officer Talen replied.

"Very well, then, I release you to your duties," Captain Wesley pointed out a sailor who was approaching from near the prow of the ship. "Mr. Klaire, this is your assistant, Peter Pan. Put him to work straight away."

Captain Wesley nodded curtly at Peter, and then he and Officer Talen fell into a synchronized step as they marched away to some other important task.

The sailor was a skeletal, hollow-eyed figure, whose nose was crooked from having been broken far too many times and a tiny rag mop of ash hair. "Mr. Pan," he said in greeting, coming to a halt. His voice sounded like what Peter would imagine a ghost to sound like—wispy and haunted.

"Sir," Peter saluted.

"No, no no, so 'sir," said he, "I am not an officer, just call me Klaire. We fellow workers that scrape the bottom of the barrel must shake hands."

Peter held out his hand instantly.

"Oh, no, but not me," said Klaire, "I don't shake hands. On principle."

"Oh," Peter withdrew his hand, unsure.

"I'm jesting with you," Klaire suddenly slapped him in the shoulder. "Follow me up the ladder, Mr. Pan! We'll start with a lesson in vocabulary."

Lithe and quick, Klaire sprang up the rope ladder, a spider in his web. Not quite as fast, but just as confident, Peter gripped the ropes and went up with ease. He paused, just at the top, to look down and see how far it really was. The mast was so tall that those who worked the deck below looked no bigger than sixpences.

He swung his legs over the edge of the nest railings and landed lightly, finding Klaire already sitting on a small stool and chewing on the end of an unlit pipe. "Bout time you got up here," he said. Then he indicated his pipe. "Don't worry, it's not lit. No smoking permitted on board. I just like the feel of it!"

"I wasn't worried—sir—Klaire," Peter replied. He glanced around at the tree house-like structure. About six foot square, surrounded on all sides by railings, and an empty stool beside Klaire's for Peter. The mast came up through a hole in the center, and continued upwards several feet to form a cradle-like bough for the balloon to sit on top of. A small set of shelves built into the mast stored a few maps, telescopes, sextants, canteens, and a long, shiny dagger.

"First thing you absolutely must know," Klaire said, gesturing to the seat beside him. Peter reluctantly sat down—he preferred leaning over the rail for the view. "Port, and starboard. I've made a little rhyme so that I never forget. Ready?"

"Yes?"

"Follow the stars at night, at _starboard_ you're in the _right,_ if you've _left _a man back at _port, _you're one sailor short! Got it?"

"Starboard, right, port, left," Peter said. "Yes, I believe so."

"There's a lot more to this job than shouting 'land ho', in this case, we'll still say it for approaching a planet… we'll be tracking constellations, but they may look different because we're sailing through them, not on the trajectory of the earth's regular passage around the sun…"

Overwhelmed with information, Peter tried to push his worries about Tinkerbell away, and listened carefully. After all, this was to be his job. He wanted to do it right—and keep it—and one night, he would have a proper base for Tinkerbell to practice her flying from.

After an hour or so of work, someone let out a shrill whistle.

"Is it time for the launching?" Peter asked excitedly.

"Technically, a launching is pre-commission, but sure—the voyage begins," Klaire granted Peter half a smile. "We've got plenty of work to do, Mr. Pan, but we've made a good start. You're a good student."

"Thank-you, sir."

Klaire leaned over the railing to watch the goings-on below, motioning for Peter to join him. The fog was thin and dissipating, allowing for a small crowd to assemble on the decks on the other side of the gangplank, shouting and waving small handkerchiefs.

The Captain, standing beside the helm on the quarter deck ("mid-way between the poop deck and the main deck, practically a 'second story'," said Klaire,) began to bark orders loudly. Sailors scrambled about, untying a variety of ropes that held the ship in place at the balcony-docks. Somewhere under the ship in the keel (the lowest level, where Engineering was) a steady throbbing sound roared to life. The ship came alive with a slight vibrate, and the balloon above hummed even louder.

"That's the sound of the gravitational balance, and the air sphere," Klaire explained.

"Sorry, what's that?" Peter asked.

Klaire laughed. "It's only the two most important things—artificial gravity to keep us from floating away to our deaths, and a protective layer of oxygen projected around the ship in a globe-like bubble to make sure we can still breathe up here."

"Do they ever… break?" Peter asked quietly.

Klaire shrugged. "We've never had any accidents. The only ship that has run into tragedy _up there _had an outbreak of some strange, alien disease. Lack of oxygen or gravity was never a problem."

"Ah," Peter responded. He tried to squash his feelings of fear trembling in the pit of his stomach—if he wasn't careful, he'd turn out like Dante. He couldn't let himself become afraid of what _could _go wrong—both in regards to the flight itself, and to his fairy hidden below. It was such a grown-up thing to do—to worry. He wouldn't do it.

…

The engines were idling, the Captain was beaming, and Officer Talen declared the ship ready for departure.

The helmsman grasped the sun-like wheel, and everyone waited with baited breath. The crowds on the docks and the balconies were shouting and yelling excitedly. Some of them were chanting _Cybership! Cybership! Cybership!_

Peter searched the crowd, and noticed a particular family who appeared to be there for more than just the technological spectacle. The woman, beautiful and alluring, was dabbing tears from her eyes. Her husband, sporting a top hat and fine clothes, shook white-gloved fist in the air, cheering lustily. They had three children with them. The two boys, one trying to look like his father (and that included the round, bookworm specs), and the youngest (clutching a teddy bear) were simultaneously shouting, "Go James! Go to it, James! Catch a star for us, James! Woo hoo!"

While last of all, their sister, probably Peter's age, did not clap or cheer or whistle. She had a single, solitary tear, going down her cheek. The glisten made her all the prettier, with blue eyes under brown curly hair and a warm-hearted expression.

The sailor they called James leaned over the railing and waved back, shouting, "I love you! I love you all! Farewell!"

The girl was not watching James. She was looking up at the crow's nest, at Peter.

Peter stared back, entranced. He had no idea why she was looking at him. He had no idea why he felt the desire to look at her at all. Then, timidly, she waved.

In reply, he inclined his head, with a bow.

"That's James Darling's family," Klaire said knowingly, "I've sailed with him many a time before—they're always at the docks to see us off on a voyage. Like clockwork." He waved back to them. "Those of us who don't have a family like to pretend they're here to see us off, too."

"Looky, it's Klaire!" said the youngest Darling member, nearly beheading his teddy bear by squeezing it in excitement. "Looky!"

The rest of the family began to wave and cheer for him, too.

Klaire beamed slightly. "This sort of thing makes the job worthwhile."

A sailor down below, to the tune of shattering glass, broke a bottle of wine against the rails of the poop deck. Everyone clapped, and somewhere, someone began to play a thrilling tune on some sort of penny whistle. The wine was poured into glasses for the officers gathered behind the captain, and broken pieces were pulled out and thrown overboard.

Peter was finally distracted by the Captain giving the order to proceed forward and begin their course. With a wooden groan, the ship began to drift in the air, away from the dock. The sailors joined in the cheering, too, waving arms that weren't clutching ropes. Peter knew that down below, the engineers and other unseen members were probably too busy to celebrate.

By the time he looked back, and dock had grown too small to see the pretty girl. The waters of the Thames were swallowed up by the fog already, but even now, it was growing lighter and lighter as they ascended. The prow was pointed at a slight incline, and a cold wind brushed through the air-pocket and whistled in Peter's ears.

The Captain gave the order to increase speed and bear a certain number of degrees to starboard, and before Peter could even adjust to what it _felt _like to be on the move through the very sky—

They came out of the clouds.

Gooseflesh rose on Peter's arms and the back of his neck, but not from cold or wind. He could feel it in his gut—this is what he was meant to do.

He was meant to fly.

It was just as he imagined sailing on the open sea, except waves were replaced by the rolling scrollwork of clouds in a variety of beige gray and pearly white. Not of all of them were thick, some of them were thin and transparent, giving way to a spectacular view of London below, lights twinkling from the sun's reflection. The town grew smaller and smaller, until it looked like a map made of magic, where miniature birds flew below and moving dots indicated people or carriages. The sky was the brightest cerulean blue, dazzling the eyes like a shadow upon snow. Peter found himself squinting at the sight, running from one side of the nest to the other, gasping in awe over the vast, open air, and feeling truly free for the first time in his life.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Klaire said, finally.

"I'll never touch land again," Peter swore. "I don't need to. I'll stay up here forever."

Klaire laughed. "You were meant to be a sky-sailor. But now, we must concentrate. Our watch is important."

"And what do we do now?"

"We keep a weather eye on that horizon," Klaire winked, "If enemies approach, we are the first to see them."

"Enemies," scoffed Peter. "Who else is up here?"

Klaire grew serious. "I want you to listen to be very carefully. It is nothing to joke about. We _do _have enemies—we're from England! …If you think that the scientists and cybertechs have advanced far enough to lend their technology for exploration and the future—do you not think there is also corruption and evil in the name of progress? It does not just begin and end with cruelty in the circuses, you know. We're not the only ones with the power to go to the stars. There are others. Pirates, smugglers, slavers…"

Peter nodded solemnly. "I guess the same sort of enemies we'd find on the ocean."

"Yes, perhaps even more so. There are all kinds of wealth to be discovered in the galaxy. It attracts all sorts of people. Trust me when I say this, Mr. Pan," Klaire whispered, "We are not alone. And it is part of our job to know exactly _when _we're not alone."

…

For a time, they sailed through the earth's atmosphere, circumnavigating a part of the globe till they would reach a place above the open ocean, so that they could go farther into space without detection from potential enemies.

Peter was glad that Dante was working below, his fear of heights being protected by not having to _see _the great heights at which they flew. Fawkes, once in awhile, would dart out of the hatch, bearing tin cups of coffee to sailors who had been working through the night previous to ready the ship. Whenever he did, he would wave up at Peter, as if he hadn't seen him in weeks.

Peter would wave back dutifully, laughing. Fawkes did not grant his affection sparingly—when he chose to adopt someone as a friend, he did so unapologetically in leaps and bounds. He seemed the type who might lament over the loss of a dearest friend, only for it to turn out that it was a stranger who just happened to sit beside him in a cab and got off at a different stop.

Klaire continued to instruct him, teaching him nautical terms and turning Peter's mind into a mushy glossary, until he felt like he could not process any more information.

After an hour or so, Peter training his eyes to spot details and anomalies below, above, and beyond—the Captain gave the orders to ascend by, not degrees, but several leagues.

The deck tilted a bit, and with a continued hum, the brightness of the sky began to dim to a twilight of slate and purple. The Captain gave the orders for the lanterns to be lit, and the deck below glowed in the flickering, orange light. Klaire lit his own tiny lanterns, two of them attached to the railings, and before Peter knew it, it felt like it was midnight.

But the sky wasn't black and as void as he would have expected, far from it.

Amongst the twinkling lights, velvet blues and royal purple hues back-lit celestial pink clouds, stardust that shone like diamonds, and cold winds that blew silently. Space wasn't dead nor frightening. It was full of life and color, bedazzled and mystical.

Earth was now a surreal snowglobe, solid and thick with thousands of tiny lives all unaware of Peter's awestruck gaze. It was every shade of blue and green, and patterns of clouds were now observable in their entirety. Klaire pointed out a long range of jagged mountains called the Alps, a hurricane in the southern Atlantic, and a small gray line that made up the Great Wall of China—the only man-made structure visible from space.

Eventually, the earth was only marble-sized, a glass pebble in the invisible hand of the god of space and time.

Peter began to notice of the different shapes and layers of space. There were panes of solid dark blue, like passing through a stained glass window. There were cloudy figures like rosy sunsets, lavender mists that felt moist as the ship moved through them, and pinprick stars that reflected the sun. Peter was astonished to find that they were like tiny balls made of fire and gasses. He knew if they went too close they would certainly be bigger and dangerous—but he had always imagined little white spheres hovering, casting shadows as if they were lamps. The real thing was much more intimidating… he wondered how Tinkerbell managed to get so close and look through them? He would have to ask.

…

Klaire began to suspect that some of his star-chart calculations were off due to their changing perspective and proximity giving them aid to seeing what was truly out there. He wrote a few coordinates down on a piece of parchment and rolled it up.

"Please deliver this to Mr. Stark in navigation, Mr. Pan," Klaire commanded.

"Yes, sir!" Peter slipped the paper into his trouser pocket and slipped under the railing. Down he went without hesitation, jumping the last few feet and raising the second hatch. The air was slightly humid under the deck, the darkness permeated only by the tiny orange gas lamps lighting the halls.

He fought the urge to check on Tinkerbell, promising himself he'd visit on the way back.

Traipsing down the hall cheerfully, he felt slightly lost and excited even though it was not too hard to find where to go. He vaguely remembered Officer Talen's directions to Dante.

A sign on the wall indicated where he would find the different stations, and following the arrows, came to a large double-door. He pushed it open and found a very different environment.

The spacious room was full of drafting tables, and a long window along the left wall that looked into the starry expanse. About thirty people milled about, talking in low tones and carrying papers to and fro. The back wall was made entirely of shelving for maps and charts, and the front wall was a giant ink map of "the galaxy thus far" that stretched from floor to ceiling.

"Peter!" Dante's voice piped up. He slid around on a tall stool and beckoned him over. When Peter approached, Dante's voice dropped down to a whisper. "It is so good to see a familiar face," he said, looking relieved. "An odd thing to say considering that I met you only a few hours ago. But I'm in over my head here, and you're just the person I want to see."

"It can't be so hard down here, is it?" Peter asked.

"Hard! I should think so! My first duty is finding the flaw in this galaxia disposal unit. They haven't been running properly and they think it lies in the design." Dante pointed to the blueprint drawing on his draft table. "I've been staring at it since I got here and I can't make head or tails of it…"

Peter looked at it carefully. "They called it a what?"

"A galaxia disposal unit," Dante said desperately. "I don't really know much about cybertechnology, I was hoping they would just need someone to draw their maps and charts…"

"Dante," Peter lowered his voice, too. "Someone's having a bit of fun at your expense. There… there is no such thing as a galaxia disposal unit." He flipped the drawing around. "It's just a water closet… a bathroom. That's all."

Dante stared in horror at the right-sided picture, and then looked across the room. A group of three men were laughing silently.

"Oh, well, that's just fine then!" Dante balled up the paper and chucked it into the wastebasket under the table. "Just bloody fine! I come here to work and they give me a… a toilet doodle!"

The men were laughing so hard that they were crying, clutching each other's shoulders for mutual support.

"Don't take it too hard," Peter said, shooting a glare at them. "We'll make them pay for this. Just you wait."

"Oh yeah?" Dante said doubtfully. "And how are you going to do that?"

"I'll think of something," Peter replied.

"Can I help you?" said a deep voice from behind them. Peter turned quickly and found a man of huge bulk towering over them—or—he seemed like a man, at least. He wore a navigation uniform, half his face seemed to be blown off and filled in with cybertech replacements. One of his eyes was made of glass in a metal socket, and there were exposed wires and lights in his neck and cheek.

"Are you Mr. Stark?" Peter asked.

"Yes, I am," his leathery skin and deep voice made him monstrous and intimidating. Peter handed him the scroll from Klaire.

"I have a delivery from the crow's nest."

"I'm sure you do," Mr. Stark snatched the scroll out of his hands, unrolled it, and held it up to the light.

"W-would you like me to make a copy of it for you?" Dante asked timidly.

Mr. Stark glared swiftly at him, the fast movement of his head causing the glass eye to roam freely with a squeaking sound.

"—Sir?" Dante added weakly.

"Fine, and then give the new copy to the First Mate and leave the other in my office," Mr. Stark said roughly.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Stark turned towards Peter. "You've made your delivery. What are you still doing here? Get out!"

"Um—yeah—sorry," Peter backed away. "See ya, Dante."

"See ya, Peter." Dante seemed to shrink inside himself as he set to work on copying Klaire's drawing. Peter felt badly for leaving him, even though this _was _the job he signed up for.

Dante seemed to fear plenty of things… being caught with a fairy, falling from a great height, the overbearing presence of his supervisor… but he wasn't a coward. Peter could sense that. He'd be brave if it came down to it, he just needed to get around a few obstacles—like worrying about the little things. Worrying about little things was what adults were for… and Dante might be a little older, but he was just a cabin boy.

_Poor brother, _Peter thought, with a smirk.

…

Peter returned the way he had come, and found a small service hallway that connected the two portions of the lower decks. Hoping he wouldn't be missed for a few extra minutes, he slipped inside.

The floor grating was red-hued, and all kinds of wires and blinking lights lay underneath the panels. The walls were cramped and slightly cluttered with tiny cupboard doors that opened onto breakers and controls. It was not a passage that was meant for cabin boys, that was for certain.

He came out of the door on the other end, and found his cabin soon enough. He hesitated, and opened the door, slipping inside with a whisper. "Tinkerbell?"

_Well, if it isn't Peter Pan, come to rescue me at last! _

"What have you done?" Peter asked. Her voice came from the direction of the bathroom door… "Did you shut yourself in there?"

_I had a bath in the sink! It was marvelous! But the door is shut and it won't open!_

"Did you lock it?"

_No, I'm not stupid!_

"Just weak enough to not be able to open it after pulling it shut," Peter scolded, opening the door. Tinkerbell darted out, neon and blinking like a distress signal. She flew up to the ceiling agitatedly. "At least I thought about coming in," Peter continued, "You could have been stuck in there for a while! I've got a lot of things to do."

_Did you get the job you wanted?_

"Did you doubt me? Of course I did! Just as soon as Klaire gives me a shift alone, the sky will be your playground."

_You clever boy! _Tinkerbell landed on his shoulder and pinched his ear. _I knew, I knew you were different. I knew you were the right choice._

"All right, that's enough, fairy," Peter brushed off her compliment with a hidden smile. "Back to whatever it is you're doing. I've got work to do."

_Listen to you, you sound so responsible._

"Means to an end," corrected Peter, "Remember. We're not like _them. _We're going home. They're looking for riches."

_What about the boys? _Tinkerbell tried to imitate Fawke's accent. _We're brothers, mate! Isn't that what you all promised?_

"I like them," Peter said, rather defensively. "They probably know the whole brotherhood thing is just to keep you safe, but I hope we can be friends, anyhow. Maybe when it comes down to it, they'll leave the life of sailing and want to live with us. Wouldn't that be fun? A whole tribe of us, exploring your world and living with the fairies?"

Tinkerbell was amused. _Oh, sure, like they'd want to live a rustic life full of organic, non-cyber adventures in the alien tropics. The 'brotherhood' will dissolve as soon as they realize your goals are different. They won't be so keen to swear into families the next time…_

"You seem to forget," Peter said, "This is all for you. Fawkes wants us to look out for each other, Dante doesn't want to get in trouble, and I want you safe—and we all agree on that. Don't be ungrateful." He stopped, biting his tongue so suddenly that he felt like he had sucked on a copper coin. He sounded like his father.

_I'm only teasing you, Peter. It's good of them to keep our secret, I just don't want you to get your hopes up about whether or not they'll be in your future. They may move on. Loyalty isn't something you can declare and make it so; it's built, and earned. _

Peter didn't answer.

_What's wrong now?_

"I'm sorry… I was sharp with you just now."

_Oh, it's all right, I hardly noticed…_

"I've got to go… stay hidden, don't close yourself in something again… You aren't going to rust over, are you?"

_I'm too advanced for that. Farewell for now!_

Peter went out the door and shut it fast behind him, putting a hand to his chest and taking a deep, cleansing breath. Don't be ungrateful, he had said, as simply as if he had asked what time it was. It was just like his father, and he wouldn't do it ever again. Never, ever.

"Jones is dead," Peter thought, "If any one asks, he was the first man I killed—the man that would have been me, what I would have become. Jones is no more—there is only Peter Pan. And he does not have a father. He is alone."

* * *

**please review and let me know what you think.**


	5. Lessons

**dear reviewers,**

**thanks so much for your compliments! I'm in the process of finishing up this novel, and sometimes in order to fix continuity I go back and edit earlier chapters. So if you see something if "off" from the first few chapters to this one, please, let me know! It's likely that it is something I've fixed already, but if I hadn't, an extra pair of eyes that notice little mistakes is beyond helpful. Thanks again. Happy readings**

**Pip**

* * *

**peter punk**

**a peter pan origin story**

**by m.s.**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Lessons **

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the crow's nest, Peter listening carefully as Klaire tried to teach him things beyond his mathematical and scientific comprehension. He tried to remember the differences between photosphere and atmosphere, the definition of ultraviolet, and speed of the ship and the how to tell which direction they were going…

"You know," Klaire said thoughtfully, when Peter showed signs of frustration for not realizing that astronomy and 'the study of celestial objects' were the same thing. "In end, none of that really matters. The real science is done below decks… we're just guardians. Watchers in the night! If you make a good look out, you've won half your battle."

After a few hours, a third person came up the ladder, this one as thin and nimble as Klaire, but without the warmth, and perhaps a good two feet taller. "You're relieved for supper," said he.

"Mr. Pan," said Klaire, "This is Tom Longman. We call him Long Tom. He's our relief."

"Nice to meet you," said Peter.

"Hm," hummed Long Tom. "This is the new assistant we requested?"

"Yes, indeed, and he'll do very well," said Klaire.

"I'm sure," Long Tom stared uncomfortably at them both, until the silence was broken by a ringing bell.

"Well!" declared Klaire loudly. "Lovely talking to you, Mr. Long, as always. Follow me, Mr. Pan, we have supper to eat."

Long Tom continued to watch Peter and Klaire as they descended.

"He's not the friendliest," Klaire admitted.

"Why do they call him Long Tom?"

"Canons aboard ship are rudimentary at best. Technology can take us to the stars but it can't make a canon ball go any faster or make an impact more detrimental. Tom is the king of a long shot… say we've got an enemy just out of range—put Tom to work on that canon fire and we're enemy-less. No idea how he does it. He's talented."

"How come he doesn't work in weapons and arms?"

"I think he had a disagreement with the captain. Who knows!"

They went down the second hatch and turned right, working their way down a different hallway than Peter had been down before. There were doors to weapons and arms, communications, and medical departments. At the end, there was a pair of wide double-doors, identical to the other side of the ship that led to navigation. But they opened into a mess hall, cramped but cheerful by comparison. There were tables everywhere, and on the back wall, a counter that separated the galley from the seating.

The man behind the counter was hardly a man at all. His body was square and robotic, with lights and wires showing through his sailor's uniform and white cook's apron. His face was made of metals and his mouth moved up and down like a lever. The only thing human about him was his left hand, though the forearm and joints were all grinding and made of clock-like gears, just like Tinkerbell. Oddly enough, though his eyes were artificial, he had a pair of spectacles stuck to the front of his face, as if he were a nanny and cook both.

Klaire and Peter fell into line behind other sailors, rope-workers in light blue, and engineers dressed in dirty beige with grease and black soot-marks covering them from head to toe. The cyborg behind the counter seemed to light up, literally, when he saw Klaire. When he could not smile, mannerisms betrayed his good mood in other ways.

"Good evening, Mr. Klaire!" he said, his voice quite human, and without the metallic filter that Peter would have imagined. "I do hope you gentlemen are hungry today. And who is your little friend?"

"This is Peter Pan," Klaire introduced, "Mr. Pan, this is Mr. Smeethington, the ship's cook."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Smeethington," Peter answered.

"Please, call me Mr. Smee, far less of a mouthful, sir," Mr. Smee began to dish up two trays of some potato mash and topped with something greasy and savory. "Smeethington is the name of a gentleman of society! I'm afraid the posh cast me out when I became ninety-five percent metal."

"Ninety-five?" Peter asked. He couldn't help is curiosity.

"The only thing left of Mr. Smeethington is the brain and the hand, sir," Mr. Smee replied, with a polite laugh. Peter was reminded of a butler that his father once hired, believing that giving the appearance of wealth would increase his stability and lifestyle in general. That butler walked out the front door after a few disastrous days. For the short time he was there, he too, had insisted on calling Peter 'sir'.

"But I can still make a wickedly delicious meal, sir," Mr. Smee added a slab of cooked meat on each plate and a spoonful of green vegetables. "Enjoy!" he handed the trays across the counter. Peter accidently touched his cyborg hand when he accepted it, and was astonished at how cold and uncomfortable the metal was. He couldn't imagine it being a part of him.

Klaire bid a cheerful farewell to Mr. Smee, and went to join other officers at a nearly-full table. Peter stood uncertainly at the head of the room, scanning desperately for an empty place to sit. He spotted Fawke's red hair, and two arms waving lustily from across the room.

"Peter! Peter!" he was chanting. "Over here!"

Peter grinned and walked carefully over. He slid in beside Fawkes, and was pleased to see Dante already there, who didn't look any worse for wear for having been teased incessantly for his first shift. James Darling sat across from them, and across from Dante, two boys Peter hadn't seen before. One appeared grim and sour-faced, the other, alert and kind.

"Peter, this is James Darling," Fawkes introduced excitedly, "He's the doctor's assistant. And grumpy over there is Richard Nibs. We call him Dick."

"It's Rick," the frowning, fair-haired boy snapped. "Rick or Nibs or nothing, thank-you."

"Whatever," Fawkes waved him off. "And cheery-face over there is Fitzwilliam Cobb. He likes to be called Cubby."

"Only because it rhymes with chubby and tubby," Fitzwilliam Cubby answered happily.

"Lads," Peter greeted, with a nod. He looked at James Darling, wondering why the older man was sitting with the rest of them.

"Fawkes has been telling us about you, Peter Pan," James Darling said. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And you," Peter pretended to drop a tiny sprig of broccoli. He made a _hmph _sound and pretended to brush it off his lap, but he was really slipping it into his pocket for Tinkerbell. He hoped a Fen could eat green vegetables.

"Anyhow, as I was sayin'," Fawkes continued, "Peter wanted to get h'self a job in the crow's nest—an' he got it! Dante wanted to draw, so he's off to navigation… I was already signed up as cook's helper—those delicious potatoes were skinned by yours truly—Dick over here is down in engineering."

"It's Rick, or Nibs," Rick Dick Nibs said tiredly. "I keep the floor clean of grease and other hazardous material," he added, proudly.

"And we thank you for it," James said kindly.

"I am the Captain's personal assistant," Cubby told them. "I'm smart and I read and do things."

"Oh, you do things? How nice for you," Rick said sarcastically.

Cubby punched him in the shoulder, and Peter realized Rick wasn't being malicious on purpose. The boys were clearly friends.

"Well, cabin boys," James Darling said, "I sit with you for a reason. I was asked by the captain to make sure you were settled and doing all right on your first day. And to ask if any of you are feeling ill or dizzy… sometimes the artificial gravity can make you feel a little queasy."

The boys all shook their heads and denied feeling ill.

"Good, good, we just want to make sure you've taken to space all right," James smiled at them. "My first time in the skies was spent vomiting over the rails."

"Disgusting!" Cubby declared with a smile.

"You've passed the medical department on the way in here, so you know where to find us if you're feeling poorly," James continued. "I'm sure you will do just fine. You're a plucky group." He stood and picked up his tray. "Now I'll leave you alone and go sit with the boring people. Take care!"

"Bye!" Fawkes waved, and Cubby followed his example.

"He's very nice," Dante observed.

Rick sighed and began to eat again. Cubby elbowed him. "You're such a wet blanket today, Nibs," he said. "What gives?"

"I'm just tired," Rick responded, "And I'm disappointed that they didn't let us bunk together. And you're stuck with Smee, James, and Stark."

"Ooh, tough luck," Cubby said, "But I like Smee and James. Stark is a little rough, but as long as he doesn't snore louder than me, we'll be all right."

"Of course," Rick smiled a little, "Perhaps setting our last cabin on fire had something to do with it."

"It was just a little experiment," Cubby protested.

Fawkes laughed. "Experiments have a way of gettin' outta hand."

"If they had just let me do it in the science station, it wouldn't have happened," Cubby shrugged. "And then they transferred me from science officer's assistant to Captain's assistant. It seems like a promotion for some…"

"But the rest of us know the truth," Rick chimed in. "It's punishment to be under the all-seeing eye of the captain for fourteen hours a day. And no authorized science fun is allowed… just paperwork, paperwork, paperwork."

"Such is life!" Cubby laughed.

During the meal, Fawkes and Cubby chatted animatedly, with Peter and Dante chiming in with something useful every so often. Rick remained quiet, for the most part, preferring to listen or say things for Cubby's ears only.

Peter realized that Rick wasn't trying to be unpleasant, despite being successful at it. He was shy, and clearly did not trust the newcomers.

"We've been mates _literally forever,_" Cubby told them, "We fell out of our prams in the park on the same day and our mothers picked up the wrong child. They've been friends ever since!"

Dante thought it was very unlikely that a baby could just 'fall' out of their prams, but Peter fancied that if he had fallen out of his pram as a child, it would have been lovely to have been picked up by the wrong mother. Then, at least, he would have had a mother.

…

"You've successfully completed your first shift," Klaire announced, "It is time for you to go to bed."

Peter yawned. "When do I come back?"

"I'll be waking you 'round four o'clock in the morning to relieve Long Tom. You'll have just a few hours up here alone before I join you—do you think you can handle that?"

"I think so, yes," Peter said. "But I have two questions. First, how am I to know any star charts need updating? I've never seen the stars before, so I think I might be a poor judge…"

"Oh, don't worry about those. Just watch out for any strange shadows, large masses of clouds that appear to be growing too fast, other ships, or distant planets. You remember the commands?"

"Dark anomaly spotted, celestial storm approaching, neighbor sighted, and land ho."

"Good work. And for any ships sailing with a black or red flag?"

"Enemies sighted."

"Good. You'll do just fine."

"And my second—if day and night is judged by the process of the earth going around the sun, and when daylight begins and ends… how are we to know what is night or day?"

Klaire chuckled. "Space does not obey the laws of our time, but we try to keep track. See there?" he pointed down. At the base of the smaller mast near the quarter deck, there was a clock—pie-sized—hanging on the timber. "By my reckoning, we try to keep our 'days' at twenty four hours, and work according to that clock."

"Oh… that makes sense." Peter was slightly disappointed to find that they were still keeping time, as if they were ordinary Londoners and not making a revolutionary journey.

"All right, Mr. Pan. Goodnight. And rest well!"

"Thank-you," Peter crawled down the ropes and made his way below decks. He was tired, but he was more eager to bring Tinkerbell some food. He hoped he could keep this up.

…

Peter returned to his cabin and found Dante and Fawkes pouring over a large book. Fawkes was excitedly pointing out large illustrations on the page, and Dante took in the information with wide eyes.

"Back again!" Fawkes said when he entered.

"How was it?" Dante asked.

"It was informational," Peter answered.

"Not as informational as this," Fawkes held up the book for Peter to see the ornate title.

_The Origin of Cybertechnology in the United Kingdom_

"It's pretty fascinating," Dante agreed reluctantly. "It was a gift from the captain to Mr. Smee several years ago, and Mr. Smee loaned it to Fawkes."

"Come look!" Fawkes said.

"Hold on, I've got a delivery to make," Peter went up to his bunk and found Tinkerbell sitting cross-legged on the pillow, hands clasped and waiting patiently.

_Oh, yay! _Tinkerbell cheered when Peter handed her the sprig of broccoli, and a tiny strip of the meat. _Oh, I could crow. This is marvelous. _

"Are you starving?" Peter asked.

_I was just fine with the roll you left me, but it was growing rather stale. But this is the feast for a queen! _She ripped off a handle of the tiny green buds at the end of the broccoli and at them like grapes. _Did you know that the others brought me something, too?_

"They did?"

_It was adorable. Fawkes brought me a thimble full of buttermilk, and Dante gave me some apple-core seeds. They were both worried that you'd forget to get me something to eat. I'm saving them for my breakfast. _

"I wouldn't forget," Peter protested. "They must think me far more careless than I am. And I bring news, too. Early in the morning, I have a shift alone. I'll stow you in my jacket and you can fly from the nest as much as you like."

_Oh, brilliant! We must think of a signal for me to return to the nest in case someone approaches, or to stay away if someone is already there. _

"We'll use the same warning Dante made up, for staying away," Peter suggested, whistling the six-note scale. "And your return signal will be one, long, shrill note."

_Agreed. And I have something for you, too._

"What is it?"

_You'll see! _

"You say that a lot."

_Well, it's true. I just don't want you to feel like my slave._

"I'm not your slave," Peter said, "I'm your… bodyguard. And a friend."

_And your care shall be repaid as soon as I am able. And then you shall love me forever! _

Peter chuckled, and Tinkerbell made a sound like windchimes.

"What's so funny?" Dante asked.

Peter and Tinkerbell swung their legs over the sides and looked down.

"Nothing," they said, simultaneously.

…

The ship did not hum any quieter, but the sounds of nighttime slowly stole over the ship. The boys changed into plain, two-piece pajames, courtesy of Fawke's thoughtfulness to stop by the ship's store for those that had come unprepared. He had tried to bribe the uniform-keeper into letting him have his own officer's hat with a large feather on it, but he was given a very strict no and a threat of a beating.

The boys had finally finished discussing their exciting first days with each other, when suddenly the door opened, and Richard Nibs stood frozen, staring first at Tinkerbell, then Peter, and then the other boys. Dead silence reigned over them, a cold and frightening fist seemed to suck the air from the room.

He came inside, and shut the door. "What—the hell—is that?" he said, his face betraying something like contempt. "What are you doing?"

"Readin'," Fawkes said, innocently.

"That!" Rick pointed at Tinkerbell. "Is that—that thing I heard about?"

"What'd you hear?" Peter demanded.

"A stolen cyberfairy?" Rick responded heatedly. "If you're on the run from the law, I won't stand for it. I'll turn you in."

"What the bloody hell for?" Fawkes erupted. "What's Peter done to you?"

"If he gets in trouble, we all do, surely you see that," Rick exclaimed. "I think Officer Matthews would see us all hung by the neck from the masts if he suspected any of us of thievery!"

"I doubt that, since he was nearly guilty of it himself," Dante pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," Rick said. "It's dangerous and you shouldn't have toys like that—especially if its stolen goods!"

_I am not stolen goods, you ignorant little prick, _Tinkerbell said, flying off the bed and hovering before Rick. _Peter is not a thief. I ran away—and we've joined forces. You can't turn us in!_

"All right, so you're _both_ on the run from the law," Rick amended. "You don't understand—I've worked hard—really hard—for this job. If they were to find out about you, I'd look just as guilty as the rest! I can't risk that! I'd be just as wrong as you for saying nothing about it."

"So you'd rather see the three of us sacked?" Fawkes said, slamming his book shut. "It's one thing to 'steal' a fairy out of captivity, but quite another to steal a man's means to live! I need this job, too, are y' going to take that from me?"

"It's not for me to decide, that's for authority to figure out," Rick shouted back.

Peter could see it was going to get out of control unless he thought of a way to get out of it… and fast.

"You want to turn us in?" he said loudly, slipping off his bunk and stepping right up to Rick's face. "Fine, then. _Do it. _But I will warn you now—you'll regret it if you do."

"What do you mean?"

"That's classified," Peter responded icily, "But I'll have _you _know that you are _not _supposed to turn us in, and that's the truth! We're not supposed to talk about the cyberfairy. It's against command."

"That's balderdash!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

"You're just a liar! And you can't stop me from telling."

"I won't try to stop you, though I think you're a coward," Peter continued. "But if you're so bloody convinced you're doing the right thing, don't hold back. Don't report us to any old sailor. Go to the first mate, Officer Talen. You want Tinkerbell off the ship? You want us locked up? Don't do it half-assed, go to the top. I _dare_ you."

Fawkes and Dante both watched, open-mouthed.

"But Peter, I thought," Dante began.

"Hush," Peter interrupted. "He has to obey his conscience, doesn't he? Go on, _Dick, _report us to the _first mate _of the _Star Maiden._"

"You think I'm too scared to bring a real problem to the first mate just because I don't like talking to people?" Rick exclaimed. "That's where you're wrong. You're trying to get me to back out. Well, I'm not afraid of him. I'm not afraid of telling him. You'll see." He backed towards the door. "Just try and stop me."

Peter planted his hands on his hips. "I am going to _watch _you go out that door. Then I'm going to follow you. I'm going to watch and make sure you report us, right and proper."

Rick glared at Peter, though his confidence wavered. He was confused. He could tell Peter was manipulating him, but he couldn't tell how.

"Go on," Peter commanded. "We're waiting."

Rick threw open the door, exited, and slammed it shut behind him.

"Well, we've met our fourth bunkmate," Peter sighed.

"What th' hell are we goin' to do?" Fawkes said. "Lock 'em in a closet?"

_I think Peter has a plan! And it's a good one, too!_

"Follow me, lads," Peter said, "I'll show you."

Dante and Fawkes scrambled off the bed, and followed Peter out of the cabin. They shut the door behind them and followed the sound of Rick's quick footsteps back down the grating of the dark, torchlit hallway.

The hatch was partially lifted, and Peter beckoned them forward, but put a finger to his lips. They went half-way up the stairs, and the three of them peered through the opening, their noses just barely over the edge of the deck.

They spotted Rick marching away from the hatch, though his footsteps faltered the closer he got to the finely-dressed figure of Officer Talen.

He was standing at the railing, hands folded behind his back, observing from the quarter deck just out of earshot from the helmsman. He, too, seemed slightly taken aback from Rick's speedy approach.

Rick bowed clumsily. "Sir, I think I've got a crime to report."

"We've got to do something," whispered Dante.

"Just wait," Fawkes said, finally catching on. "I think this will be far better than we expected."

"Before coming on board I read a newspaper article about a stolen circus artifact," Rick began, his voice trembling slightly.

"Is that so?" Officer Talen said, his voice stiff, and his face looking very grim indeed. "Would this be a certain artifact hidden in your place of residence?"

"Y-yes, that's it," Rick said, eagerly, yet unsure of himself still. "I had to tell someone in charge right away, because…"

"Did your roommates inform you that they were under strict orders to say nothing about it?"

Rick began to go pale. He was beginning to see he had been tricked. "They—they did—sir…"

"They gave you fair warning that the subject was not to be discussed, and yet you are here, discussing it?" Officer Talen said darkly. "Intentional disobedience to your superior officers is called _insubordination, _and it is one of the many crimes we do _not _tolerate aboard this vessel."

Fawkes let out a giggle.

"This isn't very funny," Dante said.

"I'm—I'm sorry, sir—they—they said…" Rick stuttered. "They tricked me!"

"This is something that must be discussed amongst yourselves and resolved without any interference from any officers or sailors," Officer Talen said. "And if you are ever insubordinate ever again, you may find yourself marooned on a remote rock somewhere in the far galaxy. Do I make myself clear?"

"That man sure knows how to make a good threat," Fawkes said.

"I should say so," Dante agreed.

Rick was horrified. He took a step backwards, bowed his head slightly, and said, "Yes, sir. Please forgive me."

"You're dismissed. Go to bed, I'm sure you have early duties tomorrow."

Rick turned away, and the other boys scrambled to leave their place of eavesdropping and darted, giggling and whispering, back to their cabin. They were waiting inside, poised in the exact way they had been before (Fawkes and Dante reading, Peter and Tink sitting and chatting) when Rick returned.

He was shamefaced, and angry. He shut the door behind him and slipped his small satchel off his shoulder. He went up the pole to his top bunk, across from Peter's, and crawled beneath the blanket.

"How'd it go?" Peter asked innocently.

Fawkes and Dante snorted at the same time.

Rick turned over and faced the wall. "I don't want to talk to _any _of you."

"No hard feelings, then?" Peter asked, waving at Fawkes and Dante to try and make them shut up. "I _did _try to warn you."

"Shut _up!"_

"Okay, goodnight, then," Peter said, trying not to laugh himself.

"Goodnight, lads!" Fawkes turned the lights down so that there was nothing but a small, orange, emergency light just at the threshold of the door. "Goodnight, Snitch!" he called up to Rick. Rick did not answer.

Dante rummaged through his own small rucksack, pulling out a large, black handkerchief. "My mother packed this for me when I first set sail from my home," he said, rather fondly. "I've got no use for it. You can use it, Tinkerbell, for a hammock."

_Thank-you, Dante! _Tinkerbell said. _That's a lovely idea! _

Dante handed the handkerchief to Tinkerbell, and her glassy wings buzzed as she carried the load back to Peter. Peter fashioned it into a sort of bundle-bag, using the four corners to tie into a knot. Then he hung the knot-loop over a small pipe-end sticking out of the wall, where a small separation between the wall and ceiling had all kinds of pipes and wires visible.

"Looks like a runaway's pack," Peter mumbled.

_It's like the curled leaves I used to sleep in at home, _Tinkerbell said. She slipped through the opening and a small fairy-shape pressed against the fabric, like a baby sleeping inside a nursemaid's blanket. _This makes me feel less homesick. _

Dante smiled and turned over to sleep. Peter slipped under the blankets and pressed his face into the pillow, trying to relax. It was his second night away from home, and though he missed his bed, it was a mite better than sleeping on a rooftop to wait out a father's drunkenness.

But sleep would not come, at first. He turned over a few more times. The rest seemed to drift off easily enough, their breathing coming deep and even. Peter rolled onto his stomach and leaned on his elbows, staring at the wall above his bed. There was a tiny circular hatch that he had not noticed before. Quietly, he pressed his thumb to the latch and popped it open.

It was a porthole. Through the thick glass, Peter was looking into the deep recesses of a 'night' in space. Every shade of dark blue; navy, royal, turquoise, and midnight, massed itself in clouds, dust, and the darkness behind the stars. They were passing near a large, white moon. Peter didn't think it was the same moon to be seen from earth, it seemed much too large. It appeared to be covered in snow and craters, emitting a faint glow from its bright atmosphere.

Peter felt its light on his face, and wondered about just how small he was, compared to the vastness of the universe. It was a child's bewilderment at insignificance that finally lulled him into a deep sleep, dreamless, until he thought he could see some sort of island—green and teeming with alien life—

And then a sharp rap on the door awoke him.

…

It was cold in the crow's nest that early in the morning, but Peter lit the lanterns and soon stopped shivering. Klaire had taught him that all the lanterns were connected to a heating system, and they kept the work stations warm as long as they were lit and occupied. Peter opened his jacket and let out a sleepy Tinkerbell, who sat on the center shelving and waited for Peter to give her the all-clear.

There were only a half-dozen sailors below, all pacing and watching their own rigging and gossiping in low voices. They never bothered to look at Peter when he emerged from the hatch, waved farewell to Klaire, and went up the ladder. They didn't bother to watch the exchange of shifts, nor even noticed that a grumpy Long Tom went below, and that Peter was finally working alone.

"It's safe," Peter whispered, "Not a single one has any reason to look up. If anyone sees you, we'll say you're a shooting star."

Tinkerbell's wings flicked back and forth excitedly. _I'm a shooting star! _

She lifted off the nest, spun around a couple of times to warm up, and suddenly shot upwards with incredible speed. There was a cold wind pulling at her limbs, physical limits tugging at her tired wings, but she was having none of it. She was a tornado, vertical, made of green dust and sparkle, tears streaming from her smiling eyes.

There was no circus tent to entrap her, nor an invisible wire tied around her ankle anchoring her to the birdhouse that was far too small. There were no bars, no promises of a meal in three days as long as she complied.

Space didn't look so empty, Peter thought, full of stars and the darting light of Tinkerbell zooming back and forth across his vision, far beyond the masts and the balloon. Not when one tiny life, too long captive, was allowed to roam free inside of it.

Peter could hear her laughter ringing merrily like sleigh bells, and every doubt disappeared as darkness on the earth when the sun rises.

…

Tinkerbell returned to hover before Peter, glistening in a way she had not before. _I've been to see the stars, _she said, _they've missed me. I looked into one of their windows and saw London again._

"Oh?" Peter asked. "Are they searching for us?"

_Not urgently. I looked ahead, to home, too. It is just as I left it. The luminescent plant life is blooming, the trees are taller than ever, my people carry on in the way that they do… the Nevertops are covered in snow…_

"The Nevertops?"

_The mountains at the center of my island, a range called The Nevers. They are covered in snow—it's glorious! Just wait till you see them for yourself! _

"I can't wait."

_And there's something else, too, _Tinkerbell inclined her tiny hand, and Peter extended his. She placed her small palm in the center of his own, and floated, waiting.

"What?" Peter asked, when suddenly, a feeling—both warm, and cold, sunlight reflecting on water's surface—began to tingle in his hand. It spread, golden and itchy, from his hand, down his arm, to his shoulder. He pulled his arm back, quickly, and thought he saw something faintly green disappear from his skin. "What is that?" he whispered.

_A little power from me, _Tinkerbell said, _Which I gain from the stars. I am restored to balance! My energy is returned! And now, I can share it with you._

"But—what is it?"

_Some call it star dust, others, pixie dust. Some have the misfortune to be dazzled with it for a time, only for it to run out. They didn't have a fairy to give it to them. _

"I really don't understand, Tinkerbell. What is it? My arm feels so… funny," Peter shook it around, testing the workability of his elbow, opening and closing his fist.

_That's because I gave it to you! Don't you see? When a person dumps a bucket of water of their heads, they are just wet and unhappy. If a stranger offers someone who is thirsty a drink, it makes all the difference. _

"You're speaking in riddles!"

_Close your eyes._

"Oh—all _right,_" Peter snapped his eyes shut. He felt the gentle footsteps of Tinkerbell stand on his shoulder, where she sat down daintily and held onto his coat collar.

_You must have positive energy for it to work. Plants require positive atmospheres and sunlight—humans have little difference. You need to turn off all your grumpiness. Think…_

"Think about what?" Peter sighed, finding a severe lack of positive things to think about.

_Oh, I don't know. Think happy thoughts. Your aura will change—trust me!_

"Happy thoughts… all right," Peter frowned and concentrated. Flashbacks, memories, lists, people, things—they all went blazing through his head, leaving very little happiness in their wake.

_You're thinking back too far. _

"Oh," Peter replied. He thought of the way he, Dante, and Fawkes hid under the hatch and giggled as they watched Officer Talen make his threats. He thought of staring at the moon through the porthole. The way Klaire referred to him as 'Mr. Pan' as if he were someone important. The camaraderie of Cubby and Nibs.

The way the Darling girl waved shyly at him from the dock.

_Open your eyes._

Peter obeyed, and was looking into the ethereal, royal purple of space. A cascade of orange clouds floated light years away, and the stars were diamonds among the fiery velvet. The only thing missing from his view was the rigging and ropes he had been previously looking towards…

He looked down, and did not find the wooden crow's nest to support him. There was nothing—not even the comfort of knowing there was air or wind resistance to slow a fall. There was wide-open night, everlasting, above, below, and all around.

Terror like none other crept into his heart—but he told himself not to panic. It couldn't be real… Tinkerbell must be playing with his mind somehow. Besides, he liked heights. What had he to fear?

"A clever trick," Peter gulped, frozen. He looked over his shoulder, and saw the ship, fifty-feet below, the dome of the balloon shining silver. "You're—you're giving me some sort of hallucination, yeah? A vision of what you've just experienced on your flight?"

_Don't panic… but… no. _

"What do you mean… no?"

_This is real. You're floating in space, with me. You're outside of the oxygen sphere, too. _

Peter instinctively clamped his mouth shut. Then, rethinking this, he managed to ask, "Then… how am I… still alive?"

Tinkerbell gestured to his hand, which still seemed to possess an alien light to it. _I gave you a little of my power. It isn't a strict ability belonging to the Fen—we are allowed to exchange and give when we want to. But I had to refuel first—and now—now you're like me! For now you can only float here—I'll take you back down—but soon enough—_

"I could be like you?" Peter asked, his terror slowly disappearing.

_If you'd like to be._

"I… I think I would! I really—yes! I want to! I could fly, couldn't I? I mean, without the ship. In space, by your side!"

_A second shooting star to my right… _

"And we could fly anywhere. As long as we wanted!"

_From night straight on till morning._

Peter felt so overwhelmed he couldn't say any more. Tinkerbell gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek, and her chuckle came and went like a caroler's bell.

_I'll take you back before we're discovered. I just wanted to give you a glimpse of how I can repay you for rescuing me. _

"R-rescuing you?" Peter stammered, as his body began to drift gently down, Tinkerbell holding his collar and her wings in steady rhythm. "I think," he said, as they brushed against the great, cold balloon. His feet touched the steadfast crow's nest, solid and a reminder of reality. "I think it's safe to say… _you've _rescued _me._"

He clutched the railing, but his legs gave way, and he sat heavily on the ground. Tinkerbell settled nervously on the flooring in front of him, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She rested her chin on one knee, and waited. Peter seemed to be having a hard time catching his breath. _You all right?_

"All right?" Peter gasped. "I'm better than all right. Do you really mean to tell me that we can do that again sometime? Only for longer? And with…" he waved his arms for emphasis. "More flying and less floating?"

_Of course! _

"It's wearing off, isn't it?"

_No, I just gave you a little. You need more if you want to be like me. _

Peter nodded, trying to take this in. It wasn't a cruel joke, it was a new reality, as he never could have imagined. She was so vague about paying him back, he didn't know what he might have guessed… some sort of fairy gift, a magic flower or a necklace made of acorns. Teaching him to fly was almost beyond comprehension.

"Oh, Tink," he said, "You may just be the greatest friend I've ever made in my life."

_Oh, Pete, _she teased in return, _I know. _

…

That afternoon, Peter was sent back to his cabin for a rest after his lunch. He was not used to awakening so early in the dawn, and Klaire realized it might be best if he didn't have a cabin boy asleep in the crow's nest, lest the Captain or Long Tom stop by.

Peter only heard the phrase, "You are relieved for one hour" as sailor's talk for a well-earned respite. Klaire, on the other hand, felt that Peter was still young enough to be put down for an afternoon nap, though neither mentioned this to the other.

When Peter returned, he handed off stolen bites to Tinkerbell, who was glowing so brightly that even the black hanky could not contain the shine. She tried to dim her lights when the boys were sleeping, but they promised they would soon grow accustom to it.

It did not hinder Peter now as he fell across his bed and fell asleep, hard and fast, as he wished he could have done many a time in the classroom on a warm afternoon. Tinkerbell tentatively brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, and looked forward to what awaited them at the end of their voyage.

…

The sounds of cheers and a metal clanging brought Peter out of his slumber.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, drowsily.

_Only forty minutes or so. I was going to wake you when it was time for you to return to work. And listen! _Tinkerbell pointed up. _Something exciting is going on up there, I think. It's been going on for quite some time._

"I'll check it out," Peter slipped back into his shoes. "Don't get bored, all right?"

_Not likely._

Peter reached for the handle, paused, and looked back. "What _have _you been doing?"

Tinkerbell suddenly flexed an arm, tiny and stick like, a little gruesome if one was not used to the sight of her gears and cogs in the joints. _Exercising! Living in cages has left me pathetically weak. I've been doing push-ups, lifts, stretches…_

Peter tried not to laugh at her. "Oh, oh, all right… good, yes, carry on."

_You wouldn't be trying to laugh if you knew it has meant the difference between helping you float in space this morning—and not falling to your death! _

"You were holding most of my weight?"

_Naturally! _Tinkerbell flexed her second arm. _The Fen are stronger than most people. But you wouldn't know that, since when you found me, I could hardly move. _

"You're full of surprises, Tink."

_And don't forget it, Pan. _

Another round of raucous cheers erupted overhead.

_Go on, see what they're up to. I shall eagerly await a report! _

Peter came out of the hatch and found groups of sailors in a semi-circle around an open area of the deck. Officer Talen stood there without his coat, grinning, a shine of sweat across his face and a sword in his hand.

Another sailor, a bulky figure they called Hobson, stood across from him. He, too, was sweaty and holding a sword, but he looked considerably more beaten.

"What's going on?" Peter asked James Darling, who stood behind the cluster of men, watching with an amused expression.

"Bit of friendly swordplay," James explained, "Officer Jas Talen is England's finest swordsman—and that's not just me saying so. The whole of the British fleet knows it. He once beat an Earl in a proper duel. You know, the Earl was insulted about something, and challenged him to mortal combat…"

"Really?" asked Peter.

"Aye, he's unbeatable, they say," James chuckled, "Of course, he hasn't fought _everyone._" A thoughtful pause. "Though he did beat the Earl—and they say that that very Earl himself was of the top five swordsmen in the world. He's dead now."

The clash of swords grabbed Peter's attention. Hobson and Officer Talen were at it hammer and tongs, blades twisting and turning and glinting from the light of the stars and twilight-colored sky. The sailors roared in approval, fists pumping and cheers echoing.

Officer Talen let out a mighty laugh, and his sword flashed. Suddenly, Hobson, was swordless. He looked down at his empty hands, confused. Officer Talen suddenly caught the pommel of Hobson's sword in his fist. He pointed both blades at Hobson's chest.

Hobson roared with laughter, and bowed. "I surrender!" he shouted, and all the sailors cheered for the first mate. Talen returned his sword to him, and they shook hands gladly.

"These sort of things help the men let off some steam," James said. "It helps keep up the ship morale, too."

"Does morale often fall low out here?" Peter asked curiously.

"Low?" repeated James. "Men will often go mad out here…"

"Who's next?" called Officer Talen. "I am not tired! Anyone up for a challenge?"

"Brigsby!" suggested a man hanging from the rigging.

"The Captain!" shouted one from the poop deck.

"Mr. Smee!" suggested another, and Smee, rolling around on robotic feet and passing out cups of coffee, looked at them with absolute disgust as they roared with laughter. And then he joined in, chuckling and shaking his head from side-to-side like a pendulum.

"Mr. Pan!" called Klaire down from the crow's nest. "Give it a try!"

"Yeah, Peter! One for the cabin boys!" laughed James, pushing him through the circle. From the opposite side of the crowd, Fawkes, Dante, and Cubby began to scream lustily, "Pe-ter! Pe-ter! Pe-ter!"

"Come on, then, lad, don't be shy," Officer Talen beckoned him forward.

Peter bowed uncomfortably. He didn't really know what to make of a bunch of grown men acting like children in a school yard. He'd never seen anything like it, really.

"No need to bow," Officer Talen informed him, "I am off duty. It is time for recreational activity. Someone loan the lad a sword!"

Hobson handed Peter his sword, and despite being thinner and lighter than the ones he had seen in books about knights, it was still long and awkward. The tip of it was borne down with the weight, and Peter nearly dropped it. Everyone laughed.

"Perhaps one a bit more age-appropriate," Officer Talen suggested.

Klaire came down the rigging, handing his dagger off to James. "Give him this," he suggested, with a wink.

James traded the dagger for the sword, and melted back into the audience.

Peter tested the dagger in his hand—it was very long for a dagger, approximately sixteen inches long. The handle was a brass-gold color inlaid with emerald green binding. It reminded him, fittingly, of Tinkerbell.

The weight felt good in his hand. He tried to think of the times he played with a stick with other children, feigning swordplay and beating back the branches of a bush-army. He tried not to think of the boy with the fingers replaced by metal cyborg bones, and the way the children had told him he couldn't play because he had an unfair advantage. Peter had said nothing to defend him—and now, he wished he had. At the time, he could only think of how to defend himself, and never others. His father had taught him nothing but fear and self-preservation.

The tricks of a stick at play in a school yard, though, he had learned all alone. And it wasn't much.

He gave an experimental twirl, like a baton, swirling it in his hand. He caught the blade in his palm lightly, and without cutting himself, flipped it back into his hand the proper way.

The crowd, silent for a moment as he had been caught up in a memory, now burst into unhealthy shouts of approval.

"You've got your work cut out for you with this one, Officer Talen!" shouted one.

"Get 'im, Peter! Get 'im!"

"All right, sword up, lad," Officer Talen said. "Follow my moves. Left, right, left. See?"

Peter was relived. He hadn't wanted to fight someone—not really. But a lesson—a lesson was good, and not kind he'd receive from his disavowed father.

Their blades crossed together; _clink! Ting! Clink! _

"Now, hold it lightly, in your hand. Grip too tightly and you tire faster. Good! Now we circle each other—like so. View your opponent. Try to see their weaknesses before you fight."

Peter stepped to his right, Officer Talen to his. They stared at each other, circling. Peter tried to think, but his mind was racing. Floating in space seemed to drain him of adrenaline, this seemed to pump more in. Officer Talen was large, muscular. Surely it would be easier for someone small and short, like Peter, to dart in—and out—and give him a prick in the ribs. He could duck under the wide blade length of Talen's sword—just close enough, and he was within touching distance, but past stabbing distance.

Using Talen's weight against him would be a good idea, Peter thought. He also noted that he was using his left hand… but it did not seem to suit him. Was he ambidextrous?

Peter was surprised at how quickly these thoughts came and went—as if they were instinct.

"Now, block," said Officer Talen. "Very good!"

Peter felt a shudder run down his arm when their blades collided. Talen was strong, and Peter, was small and agile. Everyone applauded, kindly, but they had expected more of a show from a spitfire kid and a world class talent.

"I am a fair swordsman, with my left hand," Talen said, swinging his sword and slowing at the last minute to give Peter time to parry.

"But you're right handed," Peter finished.

"Top marks," responded Talen. "Now, watch me carefully!"

Peter saw what was coming. He ducked, and there was a steel _whoosh! _over his head. Applause exploded.

"Well done," Talen continued with a friendly chuckle, yet there was an underlying uneasiness. "Were I using my right hand right now, this would be far more dangerous."

They repeated the first steps, faster this time.

"Now, can you remember everything we've just done?"

_Left, right, left. Circle, block the thrust, parry, duck. _

"Yes," Peter said, certain.

"Alright, go—"

The speed was faster now. Peter felt sweat drip down the back of his neck. _Clang! Clang! Ding! _And when he ducked, the _ffffwwt _of air was so strong that he realized, with a kind of calm horror, that Talen could have taken his head off if he had been a millisecond late.

When he straightened, everyone ooh'd and aah'd—they sensed it too. Then he heard James whisper to Klaire—

"Jas Talen was a prodigy as a child. Now he is known for his unmatched skill. But…"

"But what?" Klaire pressed.

"Peter has ten times the nerve, I think."

"Nerve," thought Peter, an idea slowly taking root in his mind that made him smile like an elfin child. The creepy sight of it made the corner of Talen's mouth twitch. "That's right—I have nerve!" Peter switched hands, from the one he was accustom with, to the one possessing a little of the Fen power… the same strength that could enable him to defy the laws of the cosmos.

He gave it a testing swing, the blade making a figure eight, his hand still giving a faint green glow that one could only see if they were really looking for it.

"You are raising the stakes," Officer Talen said. "Very good." He, too, switched hands with a strained smile. "Again." Peter noticed that Talen's right hand bore a gold wristwatch. The face was clear so that you could see the inner workings. The tick tock of the hands suddenly seemed to be the loudest thing on board.

Peter could feel that the grip on his sword was different. It was unshakeable; it was fused to him. _Left, right, left. Circle, block the thrust, parry—_

But this time, Peter did not duck. Confidence surged from his heart and through his fingers, keeping his feet planted and his back straight. He blocked the swing.

The _SHINK _was so loud that a high-pitched ringing was heard by all. Talen's strength was fully in the blow, but Peter didn't flinch. Rather, he pushed against him, and actually caused Talen to step backward.

Officer Talen's gaze hardened, and he did not retreat further. The screeching blades slid down, and when the pommels touched, Peter twisted out, slipped under, and came up between Talen and his own sword.

He held his dagger to the officer's neck, not dangerously close, but just enough to demand—without saying the words—_surrender._

Shock registered on the first mate's face, and something cold—pride, or fury?—was reflected in his eyes.

"Well done," he said, stonily.

Peter withdrew, stepping out of reach. The entirety of the ship's crew exploded with a cacophony of applause. Talen, to his surprise, gave a bow of respect. His smile was artificial, and strangely greedy. "You are full of surprises," he said, "And you've been holding out on us. Who was your instructor?"

Peter smiled back. "I've never had lessons. I've never held a blade before."

"Not once in your life?"

"Never."

"I am astounded, then. You have a gift." Talen grabbed his wrist, and held his arm above his head, like a boxing champion in the ring. Everyone cheered tenfold. "I've never met someone who required any effort," he continued. "Except for the opponents who ended up dead."

Peter wondered if this were a compliment, or another of his colorful threats.

"I will be expecting great things from you, Mr. Pan."

The Captain was clapping louder than all, but finally he ordered the crowd to disperse and return to their work stations. Talen rejoined the Captain, and the good-natured laughter that left his lips did not reach that cold light in his eyes.

Instantly, Peter was surrounded by Klaire, James, Fawkes, Cubby, Dante, and even a silent Rick Nibs. They were congratulating him loudly and all slapping his shoulders at once. Recognizing the dagger in his hand as being the same from Klaire's stash, he handed it across to his fellow crow. "Thank-you for letting me borrow this, sir," Peter said.

"Oh, keep it," Klaire waved a hand. "I can get another. This one suits you."

"Th-thank-you, sir," Peter realized he was gripping the handle so hard that Klaire would have had to pry it away from him anyhow. "I will… try to be worthy of it."

Klaire looked down at the other cabin boys with a fatherly expression—but one of affection, and not of possessiveness, as Peter would have associated with the term 'fatherly'. "You'll take good care of it, I know," he said. "And you have a few minutes yet. You can meet me in the crow's nest when the clock chimes 3, Mr. Pan."

"Yes sir! And thank-you, again," Peter sheathed the blade through his belt. It seemed to belong on him as much as it belonged in his hand.

James patted Peter's shoulder. "I think you're the new prodigy, Peter," he said, with a wink, as he exited the deck.

"Uh—wow—thanks," Peter cried, overwhelmed, as the hatch shut behind him. He had never had admirers before. He had never done anything in his life that received praises from more than one person. He had never heard so many compliments in one hour. "This is what it is like to be liked by everyone," he thought, pleasantly shocked. Everyone of course, except Nibs. He noticed that Nibs had not said anything positive to him about his daring bit of swordplay, but he was not sulking in a corner, and that was a small improvement.

"Hey, Rick," Peter said, feeling regret swell through him. He held out his hand. "No hard feelings, huh?"

Dante and Fawkes looked on, surprised, but Cubby was smiling and nodding—his warm, gentle heart approving the conversation as if he had planned it from the beginning—despite having no knowledge of what their disagreement had been about.

"Listen," Peter went on, "I'm sorry about earlier. We… we were bullies, and it wasn't right."

"I was wrong to threaten…" Rick began, when he suddenly remembered there were still many sailors milling about, many of them within hearing distance. "I was wrong to threaten you and your pet—toy. I'm sorry."

"Friends, then?" Peter asked.

"All right," Rick gave in, hesitantly. "I suppose—yes, then. Friends."

They shook hands, and Cubby let out a spontaneous war-whoop.

"Cabin boys, united!" he crowd. Rick looked as if he instantly regretted his decision.

"Sentiment," he mumbled.

...

* * *

**please let me know what you think.**


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